Can't Go Home Again
by Helga Von Nutwimple
Summary: 2008. Years after the finale, a funeral reunites the Friends, offering them a chance to fix the mistakes of their past. Chandler-centric. COMPLETE.
1. I'll Be There For You

October 2008  
  
Chandler threw the truck into third, sending a cloud of dust puffing around his wheels.   
  
He let his fingers drift over the radio buttons and fall away. Silence, for now. He rolled down the window and let the October in, leaning his elbow out, feeling the wind on his face.  
  
A leaf spiraled across the roadway in front of him, tiny gusts propelling it upward in a lazy ballet. The fields stretched out to either side, hay bale monoliths presiding.  
  
He passed the covered bridge and took a right, seeing it all new again. The city had faded out of Chandler over the years, like the color had faded out of his clothes... he washed everything until it fell apart, quintessential bachelor, who still treated the washing machine like a squat, boxy monster that only gave his clothes back because it was biding its time to attack.  
  
He pulled into Megan's driveway, carefully avoiding the menagerie soaking up warmth in the dirt. Animals seemed drawn to Megan, especially the hurt ones, crawling and dragging themselves to her house, seeking sanctuary. She never had less than twenty at a time.  
  
"Hey, Snoozer," he said warmly, scratching behind the ears of a basset hound that could barely be bothered to lift its chin from the ground. Had he been afraid of dogs, once? It was almost too ludicrous to believe.  
  
Chandler took the steps gingerly, avoiding tabbies and calicos, and knocked on the door of Megan's trailer.  
  
"Come on in," she called. "I could use some help, actually."  
  
He found her in the kitchen, trying to hold down a raccoon with one hand and give it a shot with the other. He slipped behind her, adding two hands, and she slid the needle home. The raccoon gave them a dirty look and skidded with a clatter of nails off the kitchen island.  
  
They crossed to the sink and washed their hands.  
  
"Got you all set up for tomorrow," Megan said, pulling down a dishtowel. "Your flight leaves at nine, you have a brief layover in Atlanta, and you should be at LaGuardia by two."  
  
She continued talking as she walked back to her little office, handing him things as she walked.  
  
"Here's your tickets. Here's your interesting fan mail; I already answered the boring stuff. Bills are paid. Your laptop's back from the shop... and I bought you a new black suit. Shoes too."  
  
"Ross is picking you up from the airport, he'll meet you at the gate. Here's the galley copy of "Lowdown" you wanted. Neil called, I told him what was going on, he said he'd give you a call next week."  
  
Megan looked around, hands on hips. "Is that everything?"  
  
Chandler, arms bulging, laughed. "I couldn't hold anything else."  
  
She met his eyes and grinned. "Why don't you let me get you a bag for that."  
  
***  
  
He stopped by the grocery store on the way home, grabbing a basket and filling it with Chandler-food: minimal cooking, maximum speed, taste optional. He waved to Diane at the meat counter, noting the Bible verse of the day on the blackboard behind her.   
  
Hebrews 13:4. "Marriage is honorable among all, and the bed undefiled; but fornicators and adulterers God will judge."  
  
Diane had a way of letting you know when she and Darrell weren't getting along.  
  
He pulled down a loaf of bread and smiled to himself, remembering the first -- and last -- time he'd convinced his own wife to come in here. This place, with its sun-faded can labels, handwritten signs, and overall dust color, had horrified Monica on some deep chef level even before he'd given in to his wicked impulse and tossed her a can of "Pork Brains In Milk Gravy".  
  
He hefted a gallon of Mayfield's and nearly dropped it again, suddenly remembering the other part of that trip... when poor Phoebe had decided to 'commune with nature'. He and Joey had come running out to the porch from a horrible noise... only to find Phoebe, running around the porch, cursing like a sailor, being attacked by a duck.  
  
"Oh you... you feathery piece of crap!" Phoebe screamed again in his mind, blonde hair flying as she scrambled for escape. "Don't make me pop a cap in your ass!"  
  
She'd stared Chandler and Joey down, defying them to make a comment, and Chandler had wisely kept his mouth shut... then, and on every occasion during the rest of the visit when Phoebe had glared nervously at the animals she loved too much to eat.  
  
This place, this way of life, had wormed its way into Chandler's heart... but it hadn't have the same effect on the other five. Especially Monica, the one he'd wanted to love it the most.  
  
He set his basket on the checkout counter, and Alice looked up at him with a smile.  
  
"Hey Chandler," she cooed, sliding a can over the scanner, "When's the next one coming out? You're killing us here."  
  
"Got a galley copy in the truck," Chandler grinned.  
  
Alice batted her eyelashes coyly, and Chandler couldn't help laughing.  
  
"Tell you what. This one's going to New York with me, but I'll get more next week. I'll bring you one by."  
  
"What's got you headed North? Book tour?"  
  
"Not this time," Chandler said with a sad smile.  
  
"Oh my god," Alice gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "Is your wife all right?"  
  
"Ex-wife," Chandler reminded her gently. "She's okay. But her husband's not."  
  
"Oh," Alice said. "Well, that's... that's..." She trailed off, unsure whether to congratulate or sympathize.  
  
"I liked him a lot," Chandler said helpfully.  
  
"Well then, I'm very sorry for your loss."  
  
"Thanks," Chandler said, swinging his bags into his arms. "Say hi to Charlie and the kids for me."  
  
He put the bags in the passenger seat, carefully moving the book out of harm's way. He opened it again, running his finger down the first page.  
  
The dedication. He'd gotten the publisher to change it the day Joey'd called with the news. He'd planned for this one to be to Ross, but Ross would understand.  
  
"In memory of Dr. Richard Burke. A great man and a great friend."  
  
He shut the book gently and slid it inside the grocery sack.  
  
***  
  
Chandler let himself in the house, pocketing his keys and setting the sacks on the counter. He checked the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes to Joey's show.   
  
He went ahead and turned the TV on, letting "Entertainment Tonight" play in the background as he put away the groceries, built a fire and made a sandwich. He'd just grabbed a beer when he heard Joey's name, and sauntered into the den, twisting the cap off and leaning against the fireplace.  
  
"And tonight, on our 'Behind the Nominees' series, we take a look at Joey Tribbiani, up for Best Actor in a Drama."  
  
"That's right, Marianne. It's a little known fact that, before he began his television career as 'Dr. Drake Ramoray' on Days of Our Lives, Joey Tribbiani had some... not so great acting roles. Let's take a look."  
  
Chandler laughed out loud. Oh god, poor Joey. There was a clip from 'Freud!', and another from that god-awful milk-pourer commercial. Joey as Pinocchio, Joey dead in 'Outbreak II'. How'd they find all this stuff?  
  
"We dug up some other interesting things about Joey Tribbiani, Paul," Marianne said with a grin. "Did you know he was once fired from a role as Robert DeNiro's butt double?"  
  
"No kidding," Paul laughed.  
  
"And unbelievably, when he was in his twenties, Joey Tribbiani was roommates with Chandler Bing, bestselling author of such novels as 'Noon Shadow' and 'Carolina Darkness'. They lived together for almost a decade."  
  
"Wow, wouldn't you have loved to be a fly on the wall of *that* apartment?" Paul added jovially.  
  
Chandler shook his head, a smile on his face. Whatever those broadscasters were imagining... he was pretty certain it didn't contain "Fireball" and "Hammer Darts".  
  
He bit deeply into his sandwich, smiling to himself, remembering.  
  
***  
  
"Hey, you," Ross said softly, closing the door behind him. "Feeling any better?"  
  
"Did Ems get to sleep?" Rachel asked, setting her book down across her swollen stomach.  
  
"Yeah, she's out cold. You oughta be, too. Big, crappy day tomorrow, long drive."  
  
"I know," Rachel smiled. "Just reminiscing." She patted her book lightly.  
  
"We'll see them all tomorrow," Ross said, turning down his side of the bed and sliding in next to her. He ran his fingers lightly over Chandler's name embossed on the book cover.  
  
"I know, but... we're all in here, you know? Like we used to be. Reading this one's like watching an old home movie you've seen a million times. It's a comfort-food book."  
  
"You know, I heard that Reese Witherspoon might play you in the movie," Ross grinned.  
  
"Oh, really?" Rachel said with false apathy.  
  
"Like you don't check the rumor website every day."  
  
"Well, they'd *better* get someone good for me," Rachel laughed. "Kate Hudson's playing Phoebe! Well, you know, 'Penelope'... but Phoebe."  
  
"It's gonna kill Joey to not play 'Francis'. Talk about a role you were meant for..."  
  
Rachel sighed. "Isn't that sad? We're too old to play ourselves."  
  
"You know what isn't sad?" Ross grinned, trailing his finger up from Rachel's book to her chin. "All these people, reading this book, hoping and hoping that you and I would eventually end up together."  
  
"You think that's what finally did it?" Rachel laughed. "The prayers of ten thousand Chandler Bing fans?"  
  
"Hell, it worked, I don't care," Ross smiled, kissing her and snapping off the bedroom light.  
  
***  
  
Monica laid on the loveseat, scotch on the rocks in hand, looking out the window at the lights of the city.  
  
She was cried out, drained, numb. She'd finally convinced Joey and Phoebe to take the kids and go on to the hotel. As much as she loved them, as comforting as they had been for the first few hours... she needed to be alone.  
  
Alone. Oh, god.  
  
Almost forty. Almost forty. Just a few months to go now. A divorcee, a widow, the mother of none. Oh, she had stepchildren -- all older than her -- and stepgrandchildren. Were they her ex-stepchildren now? How did that work?  
  
Of all her friends -- that close-knit group of six she'd once been a part of -- *she'd* been the one who'd wanted kids, hungered after them, longed for that kind of life.   
  
And she was the only one who didn't have it.  
  
Well, there was Chandler, but that wasn't the same. Chandler loved his new life, had found himself, had become almost unrecognizable. Quieter. More confident. Centered.  
  
Leaving Chandler had been the best thing she'd ever done for him... and *that* hurt like hell.  
  
And Richard. God. She'd cheated herself out of years with him, so hell-bent on her perfect family, her perfect children.   
  
She saw herself in her mind's eye, there at Barry and Mindy's wedding, throwing it all away.  
  
Throwing it all away, for nothing.  
  
"You can't *have* kids," she told her younger self, dancing in Richard's arms. But just like the last thousand times, Young Monica refused to listen.  
  
The apartment still smelled like Richard, was still filled with reminders of a life interrupted without warning. A card on the fridge, reminding him about a dentist's appointment. His coat on the wall peg, ready to be wrapped around him. A documentary about the civil war in the DVD player. He'd never gotten to watch the whole thing.  
  
Half a cigar in the ashtray. Newspaper open to the crossword puzzle. Reading glasses on top of a book. It was clutter, but she couldn't bring herself to clean it.  
  
She noted with no surprise that the book was one of Chandler's. She'd recognize that cover anywhere. Richard had loved that book.  
  
Monica... Monica had hated it.  
  
That book. That *particular* book, the one Nora had begun and Chandler had finished. Her last request.  
  
It had seemed like such a blessing at the time. Chandler was unemployed, grieving his mother, feeling helpless, sinking into a depression.   
  
He'd been scared out of his mind to even try... and it was Monica, stupidly, who'd convinced him to. It was so much money. So much money. And all he had to do to inherit it was finish one book. It didn't even have to be good. Just finished.   
  
He'd floundered for two weeks, pounding the table next to his laptop in frustration, reading all his mother's novels, convinced he was going to fail.  
  
It had been Phoebe who'd unlocked it for him, sitting next to him at the kitchen table, watching him write, highlight, and delete, over and over and over.  
  
"So it's sort of a star-crossed thing between these two here?" she'd asked, pointing at the screen and biting into a carrot. "Near-misses, misunderstandings, things not revealed until it was too late?"  
  
"Yeah," Chandler had moaned. "I have nothing. Nothing."  
  
"Huh," Phoebe had replied. "Yeah, I've got no idea where you'd get inspiration for *that*..."  
  
And Chandler's eyes had followed Phoebe's pointing carrot to the couch, where Ross and Rachel were involved in a stupid argument over some guy in Rachel's office.  
  
His story had taken him, then and there.  
  
All day, all night. Tapping keys. Chandler in various stages of unwashed exhaustion, responding in grunts, 'hang on a sec's, and 'lemme just finish this paragraph's. The story was riding him, driving him, pouring out of him. On the rare occasions she managed to get him out of the apartment, his eyes had a faraway look, writing in his head, polishing dialogue. He'd found his heroin, and Monica had faded into the background.  
  
Monica had cried with happiness the night he finished. He'd thought she was so supportive.  
  
The truth was, she wanted the book out of their apartment. She'd already come to think of the book as female, a dangerous succubus sucking the life out of her husband, a mistress she couldn't fight.  
  
"I'm so glad you're done," she'd cried, hugging him around the neck.  
  
"Me, too," he'd sighed. "It was *so* hard to get that last bit written."  
  
"Well, that's okay! 'Cause you're done! And you don't ever have to..."  
  
"It was just so hard to concentrate on finishing *this* book when I want to start the next one so bad," he'd finished.  
  
"Next... one...?"  
  
"I have *such* a great idea. It's not going to be a romance novel at all, really, this one's going to be more of a mystery. There's this detective named..."  
  
"Chandler? You're writing *another* book? I thought you were going to get a real job."  
  
"Screw a real job, honey! This is what I was meant to do! Not once, not for one single second in the decade at my old job, did I ever feel this way about working. Now I have what you guys have! I love this, I love doing this!"  
  
"But sweetie... it's so hard to make it as a writer... I know your mother left us a lot of money, but we'll burn through it so fast once we have kids..."  
  
"You think I suck," Chandler had stated flatly.  
  
"No, no! It'd just..."  
  
"You think I suck. My *wife* thinks I suck. You've sat there watching me write for months, thinking to yourself that I was wasting my time."  
  
He'd set his champagne glass down so hard it shattered. There was a ferocious set to his jaw she'd never seen before. Chandler... her Chandler... didn't stand up for things. Not without covering his ass with a joke.  
  
"Well, I'll tell you something, Mon. I *don't* suck. You'll see."  
  
And he hadn't. The reviews had poured in, each one more glowing than the last, almost unheard of for a book finished posthumously by a different author. It climbed the romance charts on the strength of Nora's name and then, unbelievably, crossed over.  
  
They'd woken up one snowy Tuesday to the news that Chandler and Nora's book was the only one on the bestseller list *without* "Harry Potter" in the title.  
  
And Chandler wrote, deep in novel two, ignoring everything around him, body clock totally abandoned. More nights than not, she slept alone, listening to the detested tap-tap-tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. She'd wake up just as he was stumbling to bed. They communicated mostly by notes, and the occasional gushing review that Chandler took a passive-aggressive joy in magneting to the fridge.  
  
Then he'd finished the second book, and all hell had broken loose.  
  
------------------  
  
To be continued... 


	2. When The Rain Starts To Pour

2004  
  
Monica lay across Rachel's old bed, hugging a pillow and willing herself not to clean. Chandler's new 'study' was a hurricane of books, papers, and crap that she'd been forced to swear not to touch. "And then Brian ordered Roma tomatoes instead of..."  
  
"Mmm-hmm?" Chandler murmured politely. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.  
  
"... so I ripped all his clothes off, and starting licking his belly button, when suddenly we were interrupted by the clowns from Saturn..."  
  
"Mmm-hmm?"   
  
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.  
  
"Chandler, you're not listening to me. At all."  
  
"Of course I am. You were talking about the tomatoes..."  
  
"Chandler, you can't grab one noun out of an entire conversation and convince me you're listening. I *know* that trick, okay?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mon, it's just... I mean, it's tomatoes. Why are you talking to me about tomatoes? What do I know about tomatoes?"  
  
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.  
  
"I am not talking about tomatoes. I am *trying* to tell my husband about my day. It's strange, but I seem to remember a time when he'd *ask* me about it."  
  
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Chandler sighed, turning his computer chair around to face her. "How was your day?"  
  
"Well, Brian screwed up the ordering... you know, that thing I already told you about?"  
  
"Look, you wanted me to ask, I'm asking. Why are you biting my head off?"  
  
"Do you know what today is?"  
  
"National Bitch At Your Spouse For No Reason Day? And me with no balloons."  
  
Monica's lip trembled. "I'm ovulating."  
  
"Oh, okay," Chandler sighed, turning back to the computer. "Just let me save this." He reached for the mouse with his right hand, using the left to unbutton his shirt. He clicked twice and stood, unbuckling his belt buckle. "You wanna do it here?"  
  
"Oh, god," Monica groaned, covering her eyes with her hands.  
  
He sighed in irritation. "What? Too much clutter? What?"  
  
"I can't do this, Chandler. I can't. Not another month of you taking ... *insemination breaks*."  
  
"Hey," Chandler said angrily. "*I'm* not the one who only wants to have sex on the days circled in pink."  
  
"Sure. If you had your way, we'd never do it at all."  
  
"That's *not* true. Whenever I'm in the mood, you're asleep or at work."  
  
"Whose fault is that?" Monica cried out. "Even if we were on the same schedule, you'd probably figure out some way to strap your laptop to my back."  
  
"Hey, why didn't I think of that?" Chandler spat sarcastically.  
  
"Maybe you were too busy," Monica huffed, gesturing angrily at his monitor.  
  
Chandler stood with eyes blazing, holding the ends of the belt. "Are we doing this or not?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, we're doing it." Monica laid back in the pile of papers strewn across the bed and reached down to grab the hem of her skirt.  
  
"Not even getting all the way undressed, huh?"  
  
"What's the point?"  
  
"You know, seeing you like this... your eyes, so filled with resentment, your face... so flecked with angry spittle... it just fills me with passion."  
  
"Will you shut up and do this?"  
  
"Hey, Mon? Not sure if you missed that day in anatomy, but I do have to be at least somewhat turned-on for this to work."  
  
"Just close your eyes and think of Microsoft Word. That should do the trick, huh?"  
  
Chandler buckled his pants and stared down at her. "Hey, guess what? We're not having sex, and I'm goin' to Joey's."  
  
"Are you suuuuuuure?" Monica taunted, springing forward on the bed. "Can you stand to be away from your computer that long? Won't it get looooonely without you?"  
  
"Bite me," Chandler said succinctly, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Monica rocked back on her calves, looking between the door and the computer in a white-hot rage. She pushed herself off the bed and dropped into Chandler's computer chair.  
  
She glared at the screen, momentarily tempted to do something horrible. She tentatively took the mouse in hand, wriggling the cursor around, finally clicking on a double arrow. The page blinked, replaced with a 24 point type heading. Chapter One.  
  
Monica leaned forward and began to read.  
  
***  
  
Brian turned off the "open" sign and walked to the back of the kitchen, gathering empty hotel pans as he went. He set them down heavily next to the sink and did a double-take.  
  
"Um... Monica? You're head chef. What the hell are you doing washing dishes?"  
  
"I sent Jason home," she said, wiping at her eyes with her upper arm.  
  
"Was he sick?"  
  
"No, I... I just felt like washing dishes."  
  
"You're weird. You know that, right? These are totally disgusting."  
  
"Yeah, but..." Monica took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling, blinking hard. "It's just... calming... to be able to take this huge mess and make it all better."  
  
"Hang on," Brian smiled, unbuttoning his white cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "I'll help. You talk."  
  
Monica sighed. "Okay, you know how my husband writes books."  
  
"Yeah, I read his first one. It was really good... I mean, hilarious, but so moving..." Brian broke off, plate in hand. "You're obviously not in the mood for my book review."  
  
"Nope, not so much. Anyway, he's written a new one. A detective story."  
  
"Oh...?"  
  
"And the villain is..." she choked up again. "The villain is *me*."  
  
"Oh my god, he *told* you that?"  
  
"No, no, he doesn't even know that I've read it. He doesn't like for any of us to read them until he's done editing. It's the first draft."  
  
"Well, then... how do you know it's you?"  
  
"Because I'm not an idiot, okay? This woman... she's a clean freak, a-and a chef. She has eleven categories of towels, just like I do. She even looks like me. My mannerisms, the little things I say... it's all in there."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"But this woman... she's a total bitch. I mean, she's awful. She seems okay in the beginning, you actually think she's gonna be the love interest, but as the story goes along, she just gets more and more evil. I can't believe that's how my husband sees me, you know?"  
  
"Maybe it's not," Brian offered. "Maybe he's just writing what he knows. He knows what it's like to be involved with a chef, so he made this chick one."  
  
  
Monica slammed a glass down on the rack. "You don't understand, okay? This woman *is* me. There's little private jokes in there, there's no way to misunderstand, she's *me*."  
  
"Why would he do that?"  
  
"Because that's what he *does*. His last book, okay, remember 'Ryan' and 'Eden'...? *Totally* based on my brother Ross and his ex-girlfriend. 'Penelope' and 'Francis' are my friends Phoebe and Joey. He took all his mother's characters and mapped them to someone he knows. It's the only way he got the book finished, the only way he could come up with a plot."  
  
Monica set the last dish on the sideboard. "And it's not just that, it's more than that, it's..."  
  
"C'mon," Brian said, drying his hands on a towel. "You can help me close the bar. And by 'close', I of course mean 'drink everything'."  
  
***  
  
"And then, after Rachel had Emma, Chandler and I started trying for a baby," Monica said unsteadily, sliding a little lower on her barstool. "It's been two years and nothing. Nothing."  
  
"Wow," Brian sighed, pouring a little more Scotch in her glass. "That happened to some friends of mine. Have you guys seen a doctor?"  
  
"Not yet," Monica said. "Chandler thought we should, but... that's not the way I want it to happen, you know? Bunch of doctors, Chandler jerking off in a little room, me getting hauled around and shot in the butt. My friend Phoebe went through it, she said it was awful."  
  
"It's just not fair," she continued. "Ross and Rachel got horny and drunk and -bam!- they have this beautiful little girl they didn't even *want*. Me, I want kids more than anything, and it's just not happening."  
  
"We're doing everything right, too," she moaned. "Chandler's wearing boxers and pants two sizes too big for him, I'm taking folic acid, we're not having sex except on the days I'm ovulating..."  
  
"Damn, that must suck. Sex once a month? I'd go insane."  
  
Monica laughed bitterly. "Oh, believe me, I'm lucky to get it then. Not that it's exactly a great experience."  
  
Brian took a sip of his drink. "Whaddya mean?"  
  
"It's not like sex. It's like... *breeding*. I announce that I'm ovulating, and it's wham, bam, operation performed, ma'am."  
  
"Wow... I... don't know what to say."  
  
"It'd almost be okay, you know, if anything else was the same. But he used to be so affectionate, you know? Kissed me all the time, sat with his arm around me, held my hand, snuggled up to me. But he doesn't even sleep next to me at night. So it's not just that I'm horny, you know, or lonely, which oh god, I so am, but it's like... I'm starved for touch. Like those babies i-in the orphanages on CNN."  
  
She touched her eyes with her sleeve again. "It's so stupid, I... I find myself *picking* on people, you know? Trying to start tickle fights and stuff. I got into this wrestling match with my friend Joey last week, for about five minutes, and it was... it was the nicest thing that's happened to me all month, just to be close to someone. It's like I'm... it's like I'm cold all the time."  
  
Brian looked uncomfortable. "Why don't you tell your husband this stuff?"  
  
"Because he doesn't *listen* to me. Ever. I'm an annoyance, I'm an interruption, when I do get him to talk to me, he's all defensive. Y'know, Brian, I swear to god, whenever I talk, he hears it like the adults on 'Charlie Brown', y'know, 'wha wha-wha wha, wha wha-wha-wha, wha'. I can't compete with his stupid book... I'm just not as interesting to him."  
  
"Oh, Monica, that can't be true," Brian said kindly. "You're *very* interesting, and totally gorgeous, and so..."  
  
Monica cut him off with a kiss. Brian responded for a brief moment before pulling back.  
  
"Hey, um, huh," Brian stuttered, touching her face. "Um, look... you're really nice, and I-I do kinda have a crush on you, I guess you must know that... if you weren't married I'd be all over you... but you *are* married."  
  
"Oh, god," Monica cried out in humiliation, burying her head in her arms.  
  
"Hey, look, um..." Brian said. "Have you thought about writing him a letter?"  
  
"I *live* with him!"  
  
"I know, but hear me out. You know, you start talking to someone, they start getting defensive, the whole conversation veers off somewhere you didn't want it to go, and you never get to say what you wanted to say. And sometimes, if you could have gotten them to listen to *everything* you had to say, they wouldn't be mad."  
  
"That makes sense," Monica sniffed.  
  
"Just write him a letter and tell him everything you told me, okay?"   
  
***  
  
"Hey, reclusive author Chandler Bing," Rachel called, sticking her head in the guest room. "Where the hell's your wife?"  
  
"I think she's working late," Chandler said, tapping away at the keys.  
  
"Damn, Chandler, this room's as messy as when I lived here," Rachel grinned, letting herself in and sitting on the bed. "You almost done with the book?"  
  
"Mostly. I'm done with the story. I just have to go back and edit some stuff, or Monica will kill me."  
  
"Whaddya mean?"  
  
"Well, when the story started, there was this character based on Monica, who was going to be the love interest."  
  
"Uh-huh..."  
  
"But as I kept writing, it was like, *pathetically* obvious who the killer was. Not a very good mystery, right? So I decided hey, I'll make the *real* killer the person I've set up to be the sweet love interest, that will surprise everyone."  
  
"Nice," Rachel nodded.  
  
"So now I'm just going back and changing a lot of details about the love interest character, so she's not so much like Monica in the beginning. Can you imagine the ass-kicking I'd get if Monica thought I'd made her a serial killer in my book?"  
  
"I'm seeing your gravestone in my mind," Rachel laughed.  
  
"So yeah, I'm just changing that stuff, and then I'll print it out and get you guys to read it."  
  
"Hey, Chandler...? Look, it's none of my business, but... didn't you and Monica have a pretty big fight yesterday?"  
  
"Yeah," he admitted. "I don't really know what happened. She was in here, sitting where you were, kinda babbling about tomatoes, and all of a sudden she was yelling at me."  
  
"Look, Chandler. Don't take this the wrong way, but... I realize that writing is new and fun for you, but I think you have to set some limits for yourself."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Okay. Remember when the night chef quit at Allesandro's, and Monica worked doubles for two weeks? Remember how lonely you got, how much you missed her?"  
  
"Oh god," Chandler said in sudden realization.  
  
"And this hasn't been two weeks, Chandler. It's been months and months. She never sees you, we never see you, you never go out anymore. I know how much I miss you, and how much Joey misses you... god, I can't even imagine how much Monica misses you."  
  
"Just think about this," Rachel continued. "Imagine how much more supportive Monica would be of your writing if you did it, say, eight to ten hours a day, mostly while she was at work. At night, you could go out, hang out with her, sleep while she was sleeping... hey, call it research. How are you gonna base all your characters on your real life if you *have* no life, huh?"  
  
"Oh my god, Rach -- I'm a moron. I'm a big fat moron," Chandler said in horror.  
  
"So don't be one," Rachel smiled, standing up and kissing him on the cheek. "Why don't you clean up a little, maybe get some flowers, meet Monica when she gets home?"  
  
"I could get takeout -- do a candlelight dinner thing."  
  
"Good, good. This is all good, honey. I gotta go put Emma to bed, but I'll see you around this week -- right?"  
  
"Right," Chandler smiled.   
  
***  
  
Monica let herself in the door, a little unsteadily. Chandler must be over at Joey's... the apartment was quiet, not a tap-tap-tap to be heard.  
  
She walked quietly to the guest room and let herself inside. Chandler's computer was still on. She sat down and peered at the screen.  
  
"My Computer"... "My Documents"... aha. "Microsoft Word".  
  
She clicked twice, and a blank page appeared on the screen.  
  
"Dear Chandler," she typed, and a little paper clip appeared on the side of the screen.   
  
"It looks like you're writing a letter," it said, and asked if she wanted any help.  
  
Argh, stupid computers. She continued typing, hunting and pecking for the keys with two fingers. "I really wish you'd spend more time with me, ever since you started working on your books, I feel like I never get to see you."  
  
She hit the space bar, and suddenly, a green squiggly line appeared underneath her words. What the hell? She didn't want them underlined in green squiggly. How did she get that off?  
  
She hunted for something to get the green squiggly line off and only succeeded in making her letters huge and slanty. "Stupid computer. I hate you", she typed, and laughed to herself. Like she could hurt the computer's feelings. She clicked on the green squiggly line, and the whole thing turned black.  
  
Dammit, dammit, dammit. She tried typing again, and the first two lines disappeared.  
  
Argh!!  
  
She moved the little bar thingey to the beginning, and a box popped up in front of everything, asking her if she'd like to save her document.   
  
She hit "yes", and it wanted her to name it. L-E-T-T-E-R, she typed carefully, and it popped up another damned box.  
  
See, this was why God had meant for people to use a freaking pen and a sheet of paper. What had she been thinking?   
  
She hit "enter" until all the boxes went away, hit the X on Microsoft Word, and pushed herself away from the computer with a groan.   
  
She'd write Chandler a real letter, on paper, tomorrow. She was going to bed.  
  
***  
  
Chandler shoved the bouquet underneath the arm holding the Thai food sack and brought out his keys, letting himself into the apartment.  
  
Monica wasn't in the main room. He set down the food and the flowers and walked towards the bedroom, pushing the door open quietly.  
  
Monica was crashed out, snoring softly, sprawled across the bed. He smiled to himself. She was really, really, cute when she snored.  
  
He bit his lip, deciding. If he woke her up now, she'd probably be grumpy, and his whole 'candlelit dinner' thing wouldn't go too well. Or, he could put the food in the fridge, finish his editing tonight, and be able to spend all the time with her he wanted tomorrow.  
  
That was a better idea, yeah.  
  
He stuffed the cartons in the fridge, put the flowers in some water, and walked towards his study, sliding into his computer chair.  
  
He double-clicked on the icon for his book, turning around in his chair to grab some pages of research from the bed.  
  
He turned back, and his jaw dropped.  
  
He must have opened the wrong file. This one said nothing but "I hate you" in huge italic letters.  
  
His eyes flew to the title bar. This *was* "letter.doc". Maybe he'd opened a file with the right name in the wrong folder?  
  
No, no, this was "letter.doc" in "My Documents". This *was* his book file.  
  
He changed the view settings, looked at the Last Modified date. Oh my god. It was tonight, while he was out getting the food.  
  
Monica had erased his book.  
  
*Monica* had erased his *book*.  
  
Shit. Shit. Shit. When was the last time he'd backed his computer up? He grabbed a stack of CD's and read his own handwriting with horror.  
  
March.  
  
He'd last backed up in March.  
  
He'd been on Chapter One in March.  
  
He turned back to the screen, where "I hate you" continued to glow in enormous letters.  
  
Oh my god. Oh my god. How could she do this? Why would she do this?  
  
How the hell was he going to face her tomorrow? Hi, sweetie, did you have a nice night destroying my life's work because you thought I spent too much time on it?   
  
No, no, that wasn't it at all, was it?  
  
Monica hated the book because she couldn't control it, couldn't control him when he was writing it. Ever since they'd started dating, he'd been totally whipped by her. Now he wasn't, and she couldn't stand it. This was his *punishment* for crossing her.  
  
He couldn't be here when she woke up. He was too angry, too hurt, he would say things he'd regret, might do even worse things.  
  
He turned back to the screen, erased the "I hate you" with a pang through his heart, and began to type.  
  
***  
  
Monica stumbled out of the bedroom, hungover and confused. No Chandler in bed. No tap-tap-tap-tap. Had he slept at Joey's?  
  
Her heart leaped when she saw a vase of roses on the kitchen table, with a printed note stuck underneath. He'd brought her flowers! He hadn't done that in ages!  
  
She nearly skipped over to the table, and pulled the note out from underneath the vase.   
  
She read the first few lines, and dropped into a kitchen chair, knees giving out from underneath her.  
  
"Dear Monica," the note began.  
  
"I know what you did, and I don't know what to say. I just can't look at you right now. The thing that just kills me is that I was trying to make up with you last night... I guess you're probably looking at the flowers I was bringing to you. I know you've been feeling neglected -- Rachel can fill you in on the conversation we had -- but this, this was not the way to express your anger, okay? I'm... anyway, there's no point in talking more, I'm too angry right now."  
  
"I'm going away for a while. I'll be back as soon as my brain works again."  
  
"I still love you."  
  
"Chandler."  
  
Monica let the note fall from her hand. Dear God. He'd seen her kissing Brian. He must have come down to the restaurant when she hadn't come home.  
  
With flowers. He'd come down with flowers. And he'd been standing there, looking through the window, seeing...  
  
Oh my god.  
  
-------------------  
  
To be continued... 


	3. Darkness Falls

2004  
  
Chandler had always thought he liked the dark.  
  
Now he realized he'd never known what "dark" really was.  
  
The headlights of his rental car did next to nothing to illuminate the roadway; mostly, they just lit up the rain. Trees crowded in on either side, looming and anonymous; he could be anywhere, anywhere at all. No signs. No mailboxes. No reassurances of location.  
  
Just the bright rain, and the encircling blackness... like a silver theater curtain with grinning horrors behind.  
  
He checked his odometer, then turned on the map light to double-check the directions he'd scrawled on an envelope. Eight miles to go.  
  
Kurt Cobain's scream of pain faded out, and Chandler hit the previous track button, just as he had the entire drive. Drums filled the car again, and Chandler smiled grimly.  
  
He crumpled his empty pack of cigarettes, threw them to the floorboard, and groped the passenger seat with his hand, searching for the open carton.  
  
He'd bought three. Cigarettes were astonishingly cheap down here.  
  
Which was good.  
  
Rain from the cracked window stung his forehead, and he leaned his face up into it.  
  
The trees broke to one side and the embankment plunged downward... towards what, he couldn't tell.  
  
Two miles to go.  
  
Lights up ahead, set back from the road. He glanced at the odometer and slowed to a crawl. Time to start checking mailboxes.  
  
He found the right number, parking the car by a guardrail. This wasn't right, couldn't be... there wasn't a house here, just a pier.  
  
He'd expected... what the hell *had* he expected? Something out of "Gone With The Wind", maybe, a massive white elephant of a Colonial estate with manicured grounds, probably some fountains that barely missed being pornographic, seventy gazillion rooms filled with antiques.  
  
Not a lonely pier slanting down into the darkness.  
  
Well, maybe he'd walk off it and drown. He shoved the directions and the cigarettes into his backpack, reserving the door key. He'd travelled light -- just the stuff he could shove into the bag without waking Monica, which pretty much consisted of discarded clothes off his study floor. Who needed underwear, anyway?  
  
He threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his laptop case, slammed the car door and walked hesitantly towards the mailbox, using his left hand to shade his eyes from the rain.  
  
He stepped onto the pier, looked down, and let out a little breath of shock.  
  
There was a house after all.  
  
The small house was actually *in* the river, rising up on stilts above churning water. A railed deck surrounded the house on all four sides, joining with the pier he was now on.  
  
Warm yellow light blazed from the windows, and Chandler shook his head as if to clear a vision. Flowers spilled out of windowboxes, bending beneath the torrential rain... tidy shutters framed windows with... yes, he was not hallucinating... *gingham* curtains.  
  
Nora Bing was not gingham and windowboxes. Nora Bing was white fur and gold lame, platinum blonde hair and six-inch stilettos.   
  
And for that matter, so was his dad.  
  
Maybe the caretaker had made a mistake, told him the wrong house number. Chandler walked down the pier carefully, death grip on the handrail. He finally reached the overhang of the roof, and shook himself like a dog.  
  
There was a note pinned to the door. He approached it cautiously.  
  
Dear Chandler,  
  
I got you some groceries, dear. I'm afraid I don't   
know what you like now - it's been almost thirty years   
since I shopped for you last, after all. You mentioned   
on the phone that you hadn't really gotten to pack, so   
I've laid out some of your father's things for you   
upstairs. I'll send my daughter over to check on you   
in a few hours.  
  
Delores  
  
Apparently, he had the right house after all. What the hell?  
  
He pulled out the key, but when he tried the doorknob, it opened easily.  
  
He swung the door the rest of the way open, and his jaw dropped.  
  
The warm, inviting living room was the absolute antithesis of his mother's antiseptic, elegant, minimalist white-on-white New York apartment. A beaten-up brown leather sofa stood, flanked by comfy armchairs, in front of a roaring fireplace that split the room from the kitchen. Overflowing bookshelves ringed the walls. And there were...  
  
He stepped into the room almost in a reverie, unable to believe his eyes.  
  
There were pictures of him *everywhere*.  
  
Baby Chandler, toddler Chandler, teenage Chandler. Chandler with his parents, Chandler laughing, Chandler in the bathtub with his hair formed into horns. They crowded the bookshelves and leaned crazily against each other on the massive oak mantle, propped up in places by bizarre Play-Doh sculptures.  
  
There hadn't been a single picture of him in his mother's apartment.  
  
What the hell was going on? He was overcome with a weird sense of deja vu. It seemed like he'd dreamt this house before, of life in a house like this, back in the days when his parents communicated in screams.  
  
He closed the door behind him, his eyes sliding from foreign object to foreign object. Homey kitchen with the gingham curtains he'd seen from outside. Antique appliances, bulging spice rack, cookie jar in the shape of a happy puppy. What the hell?  
  
Noise upstairs. He focused on the opposite doorway, and in moments it filled with an impossibly short redhead, arms full of laundry basket.  
  
"Hey, you made it!" she cried, setting the basket down and extending her hand.  
  
"Delores?" Chandler said timidly.  
  
"No, no, I'm the daughter. I'm Megan. Oh my god, you're soaked!"  
  
Chandler looked down and realized he was standing in a puddle. "Oh, yeah."  
  
Megan set the laundry basket down and began to root through it. "Mom sent me over, said there hadn't been time to get the phone hooked back up. I thought I'd wash this stuff of your dad's while I waited... it's a little mothball-y... but I'm sure there's something you can wear."  
  
She pulled out a chambray workshirt and a pair of faded jeans. "Here, these look like they're your size. You wanna put these on and give me that stuff? I can wash it with the rest of this."  
  
Chandler looked in amazement at the clothing Megan held out towards him. "*That* stuff is my *dad's*?"  
  
Megan shot him a weird look. "Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm a little... freaked," Chandler admitted, setting down his backpack. "You know how weird it would be if you discovered that Ozzy and Harriet were secretly into cocaine orgies? This is... kinda the opposite of that."  
  
"Here," Megan said kindly, pressing the clothes into his chest. "You change, okay? You'll catch your death. There's towels in the closet over the toilet." She steered him towards the bathroom door, and he obediently went inside and began to strip.  
  
"You don't remember me at all, do you?" Megan called through the door.  
  
"I've met you before?"  
  
"You used to come down here with your parents all the time."  
  
"I *did*?"  
  
"Yeah, and you were a terrible influence on me, too," Megan laughed. "I was the only smoker in my third-grade class. Hey, you hungry?"  
  
Chandler pulled the towel off his head and realized that he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. "Yeah, I am, actually."  
  
Megan's voice faded as she walked towards the kitchen. "You're not vegetarian or allergic to stuff, are you?"  
  
"Nope..."  
  
"I can't believe you don't remember coming down here."  
  
"Well, I... I thought I'd dreamt this place before. Maybe I actually just remembered it."  
  
"I guess you were pretty young. We had some great times here, though. Your dad made the *best* chocolate chip cookies, oh my god."  
  
"*My* dad? Chocolate chip cookies?"  
  
"Are you sure you're Chandler Bing?"  
  
"Are you sure you've met Chandler Bing's parents?"  
  
"Are you sure *you've* met Chandler Bing's parents?"  
  
Chandler sighed, opening the bathroom door and setting his wet bundle on top of the laundry basket. "Apparently not."  
  
He walked towards the kitchen, pausing to stare at the photos of a childhood he barely remembered.  
  
"I mean..." Megan said in confusion from behind the fridge door, "Nora and Charles were so awesome. Weird, yeah, but awesome. You don't know how many times I wished they were *my* parents. And it sounds like... well, no offense, but it sounds like you hate them."  
  
"I don't *hate* them," Chandler said, running his finger over the mantel. "I guess I... well, it's hard to feel connected to people who are constantly shipping you off. Boarding school, summer camps, seven gazillion hours of therapy... it's like I never saw them. I guess they didn't want me... interfering in their lives."  
  
Megan's jaw dropped. "What?"  
  
"Well, you know, they had their men, and their parties, and their Vegas burlesque act..."  
  
"Chandler... your parents didn't *want* to send you to boarding school!"  
  
It was Chandler's turn to gape. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Do you have any idea how many times my mother sat on that couch, holding *your* mother while she cried... because she missed you so much?"  
  
"No way," Chandler said weakly.  
  
"Your mom never told you this stuff?"  
  
"I barely talked to my mom," Chandler whispered.  
  
Megan stared at him, gesturing to the kitchen table with a can. "Well, sit down. Sounds like we need to talk."  
  
***  
  
"Jacob Bellows, please," Monica said shakily, turning the business card over and over in her fingers.  
  
"Who may I say is calling?"  
  
"Monica Bing."  
  
Condescending laughter on the line. "Oh, I don't think Jake wants to talk to *you*, honey."  
  
Indistinct voices, muffled, angry, then a clear: "No, gimme the bitch."  
  
Chandler's agent came on the line. "Are you proud of yourself?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I asked you, are you proud of yourself? 'Cause that was a pretty splendid little stunt you pulled."  
  
"Please, Mr. Bellows, I'm trying to find Chandler, do you know where he is?"  
  
"Why, you aren't done? Got some favorite pets to boil and serve?"  
  
Oh god. Chandler must have told him about her and Brian. "He *told* you?"  
  
"Of course he told me, are you kidding? He was supposed to send me the damn thing Thursday. I've been on the phone all day, setting his career back by years. That *was* what you wanted, wasn't it?"  
  
"Mr. Bellows... what are you talking about?"  
  
"Ahhh, evil *and* slow, nice combo. I'm talking about the book, bitch, 'Letters To A Stranger', the formerly eagerly anticipated, now sent to friggin' novel heaven, sophomore outing by Chandler M. Bing."  
  
"I... what?" She shook her head. He wasn't making any sense.  
  
"Don't bother. I know, Chandler knows, and guess what? Everyone's about to know."  
  
"B-but..."  
  
"Chandler's not goin' down for this, okay? *You* are."  
  
Click. Dial tone.  
  
She set the phone down in confusion, and it immediately rang again.  
  
"Mon, are you and Chandler watching TV?" Ross demanded. "Put Chandler on the phone."  
  
"Chandler's... not here," Monica stammered. "Where have you two been all day? I've been calling you and calling you..."  
  
"Turn the TV on. NBC. There's been some huge mistake."   
  
Monica grabbed the remote and flipped to the channel.  
  
The screen filled with two women, obviously being polled on the street. "Chandler Bing Fans" was written underneath them in white type.  
  
"Well, I just think it's horrible," the first one said, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.  
  
"I'd like to kill that..."  
  
The clip ended, and both announcers laughed.   
  
"Kinda had to bleep that one, didn't we, Steve?"   
  
"Sources at Bing's publishing company reveal that it was Chandler Bing's own *wife* who destroyed the novel, overwriting the file with a note that said, simply: 'I Hate You'."  
  
"Isn't that *ridiculous*?" Ross said. "Ohhh, Mon. *Not* a good picture of you."  
  
They'd filled the screen with a photo from some publishing company party they'd gone to a few months before. In it, Chandler was grinning adorably, leaning down to graciously sign a book for a apple-cheeked, beaming teenage fan.   
  
Monica, however, had been caught in harsh light, looking anorexically thin and twenty years Chandler's elder. Her blood-red mouth was set in a thin, angry-looking line, and her shining black chignon seemed to yank her eyebrows violently upward... her grip on Chandler's arm looking for all the world, at that moment, like she was attempting to violently yank Chandler away from the sweet young fan.  
  
Monica looked like...  
  
Monica looked like Cruella DeVille.  
  
"Oh my *god*, Ross," Monica breathed out in horror.  
  
"Yeah, you shouldn't wear your hair up anymore," Ross replied casually. "Man, Chandler's going to eat his publishing company for *lunch* when he sees this. What a load of crap!"  
  
"Ross. Ross. What... exactly... are they saying that I did?"  
  
"Well apparently, they think that Chandler had his book saved in a file on his computer, and that you maliciously wrote over it with a note that said 'I Hate You'."  
  
"Oh my god!"  
  
"I know! Like you'd destroy 'Letters to a Stranger'."  
  
"Um, what?"  
  
"Like you'd destroy 'Letters to a Stranger'."  
  
"Was... was that the title?"  
  
"Well, duh..."  
  
A chill ran down Monica's spine. "And uh... um... what do you think he would have named that file?"  
  
"I dunno." She heard Ross calling out for Rachel, and her unintelligible reply.  
  
"She says the last time she saw him working on it, it was 'letter.doc'."  
  
And everything clicked. "Oh my god, Ross, oh my god, oh my god..."  
  
"What are you freak... wait. Mon, you didn't *actually* erase his book, did you?"  
  
"I... I think I might have."  
  
"Oh my god, why?"  
  
"I didn't mean to!"  
  
"You didn't MEAN to write him a note that said you hated him?"  
  
"It was stupid Microsoft Word, that stupid paper clip!"  
  
"The office assistant?"  
  
"Whatever!"  
  
More muffled Ross-talking, and a distinct scream of horror from Rachel.   
  
"So, Monica, wait, wait. Rachel wants to know if Chandler's really... y'know... 'whereabouts unknown'."  
  
"You guys weren't home, I tried to call!" Monica sobbed. "I talked to Phoebe and Joey, we've been trying to find him all day!"  
  
"So he just disappeared?"  
  
"He left me a note... but... I didn't understand it. I thought he was mad about something else."  
  
"Something else?"  
  
"Oh god, Ross," Monica wailed. "You don't even know how badly I've screwed up."  
  
***  
  
"The thing you have to understand about your parents is..." Megan began, dragging a pan out from a cabinet.  
  
Her cellphone rang, and Megan looked at him apologetically. "Sorry, hang on just a sec." She crossed, dug in her purse, retrieved her phone and flipped the earpiece up. "Megan Mitchell."  
  
"Okay... I'll tell him." She hit the 'end' button. "Mom says you're on TV."  
  
"Why in the hell would I be on TV?"  
  
"Dunno," Megan said, crossing into the living room and pressing the remote on the coffee table. The TV blared to life, and Megan switched over to NBC.  
  
"Kinda had to bleep that one, didn't we, Steve?" the female announcer said.  
  
"Chandler, get in here," Megan said quietly.  
  
Megan and Chandler stared at the screen in horror, watching as the story unfolded. Chandler jerked with indignation when the picture of Monica flashed onscreen.  
  
Megan crossed her arms and looked at Chandler sadly. "I guess that takes care of the 'so what brings you down here' question I was working up the balls to ask."  
  
"That's -- it's -- she -- how the hell do they know?" Chandler screeched, scratching the back of his neck nervously.  
  
"Who'd you tell?"  
  
"My agent, I kinda had to. That's it, though." Chandler leaned against the fireplace and gestured at the screen helplessly. "Dammit, Jacob... I should have known he'd pull some shit like this. Everything's about the spin with him."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, look what he's done! A half-hour ago, I was an author missing his deadline. Now I'm the angelic victim of a book-destroying, child-hating shrew."  
  
"The *missing* angelic victim of a book-destroying, child-hating shrew," Megan pointed out. "I bet your wife is worried sick."  
  
"Oh, god."  
  
"You want to call her? You can use my phone."  
  
"No, I... I really, really don't want to talk to her. Still."  
  
"Look, at least call one of your friends," Megan insisted gently. "Just let them know you're okay. You're not mad at your friends, are you? And they can tell your wife you're all right."  
  
She thrust the cellphone at Chandler, and he regarded it for a moment, mentally sorting through his friends for the one least likely to be home. He took it from Megan's hand and dialed.  
  
The phone rang, and the machine picked up.  
  
"Hi! You've reached Phoebe Buffay. Don't hang up, that pisses me off. And you don't want to piss me off."  
  
Beep. "Hey, Pheebs, it's Chandler. I was hoping you could pass on a message..."  
  
Noise on the line, then Phoebe picking up. "Chandler! Chandler, where the hell are you? We've been looking for you all day! We were worried sick!"  
  
"I'm okay, all right? I don't want to say where I am."  
  
"Look, Chandler. Monica is *so* sorry about Brian. She feels totally stupid, she never meant to hurt you..."  
  
"Brian? Who the hell is Brian?"  
  
"Brian's the name of the guy you saw her kissing."  
  
"Monica kissed some guy named Brian?"  
  
Horrified silence on Phoebe's end of the line.  
  
"What the hell, Pheebs? Monica's *cheating* on me?"  
  
"No, no, no! Look, Chandler, it was nothing, that's the whole point, I..."  
  
"I have to go," Chandler snapped, pressing the "end" button viciously.  
  
He looked over at Megan, who was wincing, and tossed the phone at her. "Well, thanks for making me do *that*. I feel so much better *now*!"  
  
The phone began to ring. Megan held it up and looked at Chandler questioningly.  
  
"Turn it off, okay? That's Phoebe calling back, she must have Caller ID or something. I can't... I can't deal with this right now."  
  
Megan turned off the cellphone, set it on the coffee table, and walked quietly back into the kitchen.  
  
***  
  
Monica listened to the phone ring, staring down at the pad where she'd scribbed the number Phoebe had called with.  
  
"Hi, you've reached Megan Mitchell. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep."  
  
She must have dialed the number wrong. She hung up, tried again.  
  
"Hi, you've reached Megan Mitchell..."  
  
Monica hung up violently. Who the *hell* was 'Megan Mitchell', and why was Chandler with her?  
  
She sounded young.  
  
Young and pretty.  
  
Monica paced around the apartment, periodically calling the number back, hanging up at the first word spoken by the voice she was quickly coming to detest. At eleven, she turned the news back on.  
  
"The hunt for author Chandler Bing continues, with supposed sightings popping up all across America."  
  
A heavyset man, flanked by two friends, laughed into the camera. "Hell, yeah, I saw Chandler Bing. Saw him in a bar downtown. Asked me if I knew a good divorce lawyer." He and his friends burst into hysterical laughter.  
  
Monica put her head in her hands and sobbed. 


	4. Underwater Moonlight

2004  
  
Megan paused awkwardly over the casserole pan, shooting a look over her shoulder at a pacing Chandler. "Um... are you even still hungry?"  
  
"Nope, nope," he cried, "Shockingly, I have lost my appetite..."  
  
"Well, uh... how about I just finish making this and put it in the fridge? You could eat it tomorrow. And then, uh, I could go... if you wanted me to. Or you could talk about it. If you wanted."  
  
Chandler dropped into a kitchen chair and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Megan wordlessly pulled an ashtray out of the cabinet and set it in front of him.  
  
"Thanks," he sighed. "I'm sorry I'm... I just met you, and I'm all..."  
  
"You know," she grinned, "I only know about thirty seconds worth of the circumstances, and already I'm not judging you."  
  
She went back to the counter and sprinkled parsley over the top of the casserole. "Talk if you wanna, I'm listening."  
  
It was oddly easier with her back turned. Chandler took another drag and stared at his fingers. "Well, my wife and I... we haven't been getting along so well, lately, which is sort of like..." He sighed. "You know what? Just insert an amusing simile of your choice there. I don't think I've ever felt less funny in my whole life."  
  
"Duly amused, go ahead..."  
  
"I mean, we used to be happy. We were friends first, y'know, for a long time. And when we first got married, we were fine. Great, even. But now... god. I guess it started with the baby... we've been trying for like, two years, and it's really hard on my wife. And then when I started writing..."  
  
Chandler leaned his head back and sighed heavily. "God. It just all went to hell."  
  
Megan slid the casserole into the oven and set her mitts aside. "C'mon," she said, reaching in the refrigerator and grabbing two bottles. "This is a beer-on-the-porch-in-a-storm conversation if I've ever heard one."  
  
***  
  
"So then I tried to think of somewhere I could go," Chandler finished, tapping ashes into the cup Megan had brought out with them. "And I remembered that Mom left me this place."  
  
"That, absolutely, sucks ass," Megan declared, inhaling deeply from her own cigarette.  
  
Chandler raised his beer to his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, it does. So I... I have no friggin' clue what to do now. My book is trashed, my marriage is trashed..."   
  
"And you're *sure* it's not a misunderstanding? I mean, from everything you've told me, your wife was pretty cool. I know I don't know her, but... for her to do something like *that*... isn't that a little unbelievable?"  
  
"It is unbelievable. But so is her kissing some guy at her restaurant! And she *told* Pheebs she did that!"  
  
"Yeah," Megan admitted quietly. She stood up, knees popping, and adjusted the wick on the gas lantern.  
  
"It's great out here," Chandler sighed.  
  
Megan grinned fondly around the porch. "I guess this is my favorite room in the house. Or the kitchen. I'm torn. But I love being out here when it's raining. I think it's the way the air smells. Crackly, y'know. Alive."  
  
"The river is great," Chandler replied, gesturing with his beer. "That sound is awesome. There's nothing like that in New York."  
  
"Wait until you go to sleep tonight," Megan smiled. "You are gonna sleep like a baby to that sound."  
  
Chandler's expression darkened. "Yeah... I don't think I'll be sleeping so much."  
  
"You think that now," Megan said confidently. "But you wait until you're in that bed... with the river breeze blowin' in... and that sound... you'll be off before you know it."  
  
Megan's face turned serious. "Chandler, if you need anything... I mean anything, from groceries, to someone to talk to, a liver transplant... just let me know, okay?"  
  
Chandler laughed nervously. "Um... liver's doing fine, thanks... are you always this hospitable?"  
  
Megan didn't answer. She turned, pressing her face and hand against the screen, looking out at the churning water.  
  
"Do you remember the time that I fell in?" she said softly.  
  
"Sorry, no. I don't even remember this place... or you, no offense. It's like... a tickle in the back of my mind."  
  
"I almost died."  
  
"And yet you seem to like it a lot..."  
  
"Well, I didn't die. I came close, but... a friend of mine saved me."  
  
"How old were you?"  
  
"I was seven," Megan replied, still looking out at the darkness. "He didn't even really know how to swim, but... he jumped in and pulled me out anyway. He almost died, too. He was so, so brave."  
  
She sipped her beer. "And I swore, that if he ever needed me, I'd be there for him."  
  
"Me?" Chandler said in wonder.  
  
"Yeah, you," Megan laughed, turning around. "How much would that story suck if it wasn't you?"  
  
"Well, I didn't know! Daring white-water rescues aren't something I associate with myself... I'm your basic big fruity pansy, when it comes right down to it."  
  
"You are *not*," Megan cried passionately, and just for a moment, the child she had been flickered on the edges of Chandler's memory.  
  
Cold. Very cold. Megan in pigtails rolled to the side of her head and a cut-up white pillowcase underneath her parka...  
  
"We... we used to play out here?" Chandler said, grasping out for the faded pictures. "We used to play... 'Star Wars'...?"  
  
"I was always Leia," Megan smiled at the memory. "And you were always Han, 'cause you were the biggest wiseass..."  
  
"And there... there was another kid, wasn't there? Leia, Han, and Luke..." Chandler said, squinting to remember. "A smaller kid... I can almost see him, but..."   
  
He looked up and smiled. "Okay, can't do it. Who was the other kid we used to play with?"  
  
One look at Megan's pale, startled face made his smile evaporate. "Aw, c'mon, why... why are you looking at me like that? Who was the other kid? What was his name?"  
  
"It was Faulkner," Megan whispered. "You don't... you don't remember him?"  
  
"Gimme a break, it was almost thirty years ago. So who was he?"  
  
"He was..." Megan swallowed hard. "Well, he was your little brother, Chandler."  
  
***  
  
Chop chop chop chop chop.  
  
Monica's blade was a blur, guided expertly at breakneck speed, producing a sound like machine gun fire. The minced onion was shoved aside roughly, and a piece of celery took its place on the block.  
  
Chop chop chop chop chop.  
  
Twenty-four hours had passed since he'd left, and no word from Chandler.   
  
She had cleaned every square inch of the apartment. Twice. She had worked out until she pulled a thigh muscle. She had reorganized everything, she had put all Chandler's CD's back in the proper cases...  
  
Basically, she'd exhausted every way to work off nervous energy.  
  
That could be done while still staring at the phone.  
  
And now, she was chopping, not making anything in particular, just... making everything in the refrigerator into very small bits. When she was done with that, she'd... well, she wasn't thinking that far ahead.  
  
Monica was working very hard on not thinking at all.  
  
It wasn't that the phone wasn't ringing. It was definitely doing that: with all the reporters and acquaintances and random idiots, the machine had run out of tape five times.   
  
It was just that it was never Chandler.  
  
Chop chop chop chop chop.  
  
The answering machine clicked on again. Monica'd eventually turned the ringer volume off... at least some of the people who called got a clue when they got the machine and hung up.  
  
Beep. "Hey, sweetie, it's your dad..."  
  
Monica threw down the knife and ran for the phone, snatching it off the cradle just before Jack ended his message.  
  
"Dad, I'm here... Dad... Dad?"  
  
"Hey, honey, how you holding up?"  
  
Monica collapsed on the couch. "Oh, Daddy..."  
  
"Look, sweetie, I talked to my lawyer. We can sue those TV shows, sue their sleazy butts right off..."  
  
"Dad, I... I don't care about suing anyone right now. I just want Chandler to come home. How's Mom taking it?"  
  
"Oh, don't worry about your mother, dear. She's handing it just fine."  
  
A loud crash and an angry feminine screech in the background proved Jack to be a very bad liar.  
  
"Judy... Judy, put that down, put that down, the Goldmans gave us that for our anniversary! Hang on, honey, your mom... needs help in the kitchen."  
  
Muffled sounds. Then, a familiar, "Well, okay, Jack."  
  
"Hey, Mon," Richard said awkwardly. "Your dad handed me the phone. I hope that's okay."  
  
"Hey, Richard," Monica sighed.  
  
"You really could sue their butts off, you know," Richard added.  
  
"I'm... not in a su-ey place right now," Monica replied.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I can imagine." A long, awkward pause. "Have you heard from him?"  
  
"Nothing." Monica's voice cracked. "Not a word. He called Phoebe, he's okay, but... I don't know what's going on..."  
  
"Well, look. Your mom and dad are... kinda occupied. Why don't you take a deep breath and tell me what happened, okay? Maybe we can figure it out."  
  
Richard's voice soothed her, as it always did. She found herself pouring her heart out.  
  
"Huh," Richard said when she'd finished. "Look at it this way. From everything you've said, Chandler probably wanted a place to hide and think. This Megan person is probably an old friend, or hey... maybe the *wife* of an old friend... whose house he's staying at. Or hell, maybe she sat next to him on the plane and let him borrow her phone. Any one of those things are more likely than your worst-case scenario. I just can't see Chandler cheating on you. Can you? Really?"  
  
"I didn't really think about it like that," Monica sighed, wiping the last of her tears from her cheek.  
  
"Totally understandable. You're upset." Richard paused. "Look. The Chandler I remember wouldn't be this angry with you for an honest mistake. So the basic problem is, he doesn't *know* it was an honest mistake. *That's* what you have to fix first. And this Megan person is your link. Even if she did just let Chandler borrow her phone... she'll know where she was when she did it, right? So call her, and leave a message this time. Explain the situation."  
  
"I guess that makes sense."  
  
"And if that doesn't work... then maybe you ought to hold a press conference. Or at least tell some of the reporters that have been calling your side of the story. Get the word out to Chandler any way that you can."  
  
"Richard... I... thank you so much. If there is ever anything, *anything* I can do for you, please, please let me know."  
  
"Tell you what," Richard said pleasantly. "When all this has blown over and you and Chandler are okay again, you can make me a pie."  
  
"That won't begin to make up for..."  
  
"A really *big* pie. Here's your dad back. Feel better."  
  
"Hey, honey," Jack said, sounding very out of breath, "Did you have a nice talk with Richard?"  
  
"Very nice," Monica replied, picking at her jeans, deep in thought. 


	5. And This Is Me Singin'

2004  
  
"W-what happened to him?" Chandler breathed, his entire body frozen.  
  
Megan sat down on top of the picnic table, leaning over her knees unhappily. "It was a car wreck. You were screwed up pretty bad, too... cut up and hurt, I think you had a concussion?"  
  
"How -- how old?"  
  
"You were eight, I think. He was six. You'd been playing in the backseat... you'd both unbuckled your seatbelts, you were wrestling or something. You thought it was your fault. Because of that."  
  
"How in the hell... how in the hell did I just... *forget* something like that?"  
  
"That day... that day I fell in. You didn't just rescue me, Chandler... you went apeshit, totally nuts, you were like a... kamikaze pilot. Like it absolutely didn't matter whether *you* died or not, as long as no one else did. I think maybe... maybe you *wanted* to die doing it. Like it would reverse what happened to Faulk."  
  
Megan tipped her beer back. "At any rate, you got what you wanted... you died. For about a minute, anyway. Hypothermia and water inhalation and everything else... they got you breathing again, but you were in a coma for a month."  
  
"I don't understand..." Chandler searched his memory, coming up with nothing but white space.  
  
"The doctors thought it might have been the two brain traumas so close together... or shock... but when you got back from the hospital, you were... weird. Blank. Vague. Happy... or maybe a better word is 'content'... and you hadn't been anything, anything even resembling happy, for a second, since Faulkner died."  
  
Megan snapped her fingers. "No, no, I know what you were like. You were like one of those lobotomy people. Walking around aimlessly with that creepy half-smile on their faces. That was you."  
  
"I just..." Megan rolled her beer bottle between her hands, "Wow. I never thought you'd be this old and still not remember."  
  
"I didn't remember then?"  
  
"No, you didn't. Well, you kinda did... it's hard to explain. It's like... it's like if you'd never been hungry before, right? And one day, you don't eat, and you're all, 'What's wrong with my stomach?' You'd see things that reminded you of him, and you'd get confused and angry, but you wouldn't know why."  
  
"Damn," Chandler muttered, at a loss for any other words.  
  
"Yeah. So your parents got you out of here. Too many things making you upset, too many things confusing you. Your shrink... he said it was a blessing in disguise, said you'd remember when you were ready to deal with it, said not to push you."  
  
Megan sighed. "That's when the boarding school thing happened. It was your shrink's idea. Whole new environment, no triggers."  
  
"And I didn't remember anything? Even later?"  
  
"I dunno," Megan replied, sighing softly. "The last time I saw you before tonight was the night before you left for New York. And seeing me... set you off again. They had to separate us."  
  
"I'd talk to your mom about you from time to time," she continued, "But by then, even your mom didn't really know how you were or what you were doing."  
  
"But..." Chandler said, pain in his eyes, "Why'd they just... *leave* me there?"  
  
Megan looked up sharply, heart breaking, hearing in Chandler's plaintive voice the boy she had known, hearing him homesick and confused, far away from everything, nursing an internal vacuum of memories and pain on the bottom half of a strange bunk bed.  
  
"Because things at your house *sucked*, Chandler," she said gently. "They were trying to keep you out of it. They were destroyed, too. Between Faulk dying and what happened to you... missing you both... it ripped them apart. They were so angry at each other. Your dad started drinking, your mom... started acting completely different."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, at first... 'Nora Bing', y'know, 'The Passion Queen'... she was someone your Mom put on when she had to. Like a character, for book signings and stuff. Your Mom didn't like it, really... c'mon, I'll show you something."  
  
Megan pushed herself off of the table, and Chandler followed her back into the living room. Megan selected a photo off the mantelpiece.  
  
"That's your mom," she smiled, handing the photo to Chandler.  
  
"No way," Chandler breathed, running his fingertips over the glass. The woman in the picture was mousy, intellectual, with huge, Gloria Steinem-esque glasses eating her face.   
  
"Apparently, that's what she looked like on the first stop on her first book tour, too. And her publicist bitched her out royally... said no one wanted to buy romance novels from Donna Reed. She was all upset, so your dad, he hauled her out and made her over. I guess you can imagine, he was pretty good at it."  
  
"Dad *can* accessorize," Chandler admitted.  
  
Megan smiled. "Your dad told me once that 'Nora Bing' was his first draft of 'Helena Handbasket'."  
  
"How do you know all this stuff?" Chandler asked suddenly.  
  
Megan blushed. "Um. Well. When I was a kid, you were, y'know, older. From the city. Cool. I, well... kind of idolized you. Then you saved my life, which really didn't help with the prepubescent crush thing, y'know? And, uh, the disappearing mysteriously, never to return, thing. I had a really huge crush on you for a long time... so I kinda, y'know, pestered your parents for all the info on you I could get. And they didn't really get to talk about you much, I think, so they liked doing it."  
  
"I did get over it eventually," she said a little defensively, holding up her engagement-beringed left hand.  
  
"So Dad made Mom over?" Chandler mercifully changed the subject.  
  
"Yeah," Megan sighed, the tension flowing out of her body. "He did. And your mom, right before a book tour or something, would have him do it again... the hair dye, the dresses. You know. But until Faulkner died, she sort of viewed it as a stupid chore."  
  
"And... after Faulkner died?"  
  
"Well, your mom's life was sorta crap. You were gone, Faulkner was gone, your dad was drinking a ton, just going through this total breakdown. He blamed himself too, and he had other stuff going on... I'm getting off topic. Anyway. The main thing was, 'Nora Bing'... her life *wasn't* crap. Her life was *fabulous*. And anywhere your mom went, where she showed up as 'Nora Bing'... she was fabulous, too. People threw activities at her... constant distractions... parties and benefits and lalala."  
  
Megan picked at her beer label. "I guess it'd be like if you had multiple personality disorder, y'know, and one personality's life blew big-time, and one was on top of the world... which one would you wanna be?"  
  
"Never really had that option," Chandler laughed.  
  
"Okay, but say you did. Y'know, all you had to do was basically put on a costume, and women would fall at your feet... people would beg you to come to their parties... hang on your every word... would you ever take that costume off?"  
  
"I'd have it sewn into my skin," Chandler admitted.  
  
"Your mom..." Megan added, "With the *possible* exception of your dad... was the most insecure person I've ever met."  
  
"I'm hearing you, but it's just... it's just a little hard to buy, right? I *know* insecure, okay? I live there. I have a mortgage. It does not involve getting up on a Vegas stage, o-or telling Jay Leno about my sex life."  
  
Megan fixed him with a sardonic glance. "So you've never, ever, done anything over-the-top to hide how bad you felt on the inside?"  
  
A thousand embarrassing memories tried to squeeze themselves at once into Chandler's brain. "Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe..."  
  
"And then there was your dad," Megan continued, taking down another picture... this time of Charles... and smiling at it. "God, I adore your dad. But he was *so* screwed up back then."  
  
"Go on," Chandler said, gently setting the picture of Nora back on the mantelpiece.  
  
"He knew he was gay. Had known for years, sort of quietly figured it out for himself. But he loved you guys, didn't want to lose you or hurt you. And he'd basically made this deal with himself, or god, or something, y'know? He'd stay in the closet, deal with a certain level of unhappiness, for the tradeoff of this family that he adored. And he wore the suits, and pretended, and did all the 'manly' crap he thought he was supposed to do... and then lost it all anyway."  
  
Megan smiled at Chandler. "God, you remind me so much of them."  
  
"Hey, thanks!" Chandler replied, sarcasm dripping.  
  
"I mean that as a compliment," Megan said seriously.  
  
"Yeah, I..." Chandler scratched his nose. "It's just not the most reassuring way to end a story about how screwed-up they were."  
  
"Well, you were screwed up too," Megan said simply. "And you did the exact same thing they did."  
  
"Yeah, okay, y'know... I think if I had a show in Vegas, I'd know, okay?"  
  
"That's not what I mean. I meant the character, y'know, that you put on when you're feeling insecure. Charles had Helena, Nora had Nora, and you... whenever you were feeling bad, or nervous, or whatever... out came this... Dennis Miller guy. Joke-joke-joke-joke-joke, everything deflected, nothing allowed to be serious for even five seconds."  
  
Chandler froze, and Megan touched his arm. "Hey, I'm not insulting you, I do the same thing. Got it from you, in fact."  
  
She considered. "Maybe... maybe *that's* why your parents liked having me around. I guess I was their... Chandler patch."  
  
She sat down on the coffee table. "Hmm, that's depressing."  
  
"Yessssss..." Chandler hissed playfully, sinking into the chair next to her. "Join me in the tarpit of self-loathing... it's so warm and gooey in here..."  
  
Megan looked up at the clock and blinked. "Oh, damn."  
  
"Why?" Chandler swiveled to follow her eyes. "What time is it?"  
  
"Two a.m.," Megan groaned. "I have to be up in four hours. Dammit."  
  
She launched herself off the coffee table and out the door. "I'm gonna get you stuff. Hang on."  
  
She reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of boxes. "This stuff will explain better than I ever could." She set the boxes down.  
  
"What's in these?" Chandler asked, tapping the top one with his finger.  
  
"Videos. Your mom had a bunch of film transferred a few years ago. There's some photo albums in that top box, too. And this one... this one's the gold mine."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Your mom's diaries. All of them, I think."  
  
Megan grabbed her purse, stuck the dead cellphone into it, and grabbed her keys... then thought again and rummaged in the purse for a card.  
  
"Look, your phone should be hooked up tomorrow. Here's my number. Call me or something. And if you have questions, you should totally talk to my mom. She spent years with your parents. Hang on, I'll write her number on the back."   
  
She did so. Chandler rose and stuck out his hand. Megan capped her pen and took it.  
  
"Well, hey," Chandler said. "It was nice to meet you... again."  
  
"Same here," Megan grinned.  
  
***  
  
Chandler closed the front door, waiting for Megan to drive away before he killed the porch light.  
  
He paused for a moment, leaning against the door, taking it all in, letting the shock seep into his bones.  
  
He turned, sliding the bolt home, locking the door of the house.  
  
"My house," he thought, and a little thrill went through him.  
  
"My house," he said out loud, experimentally.   
  
It seemed like the house smiled back at him.  
  
Megan had left the sliding door cracked, and the sounds and smells of rain and river filled the air, blending with the warm pastry-smell of the casserole she'd left to cool on top of the range. There were other, softer smells: old leather, lemon cleanser, and an undertone he associated with wet leaves.   
  
In a way, it was the smells that pulled hardest at the lock of his memory.  
  
Well, that would change. He crossed to the kitchen table and opened the first box Megan had brought him.  
  
The videotape was on top, right where she said it would be.  
  
He swiped another beer from the fridge as he passed, popping the tape in and settling back on the worn, soft couch.  
  
The TV flickered to life, and his own face filled the screen.  
  
"I'm Chandler Bing!" his six-year-old self announced proudly. "And this is me *singin*."  
  
Young Chandler stepped back from the camera, flickering on a Super 8 transfer, revealing himself to be clad in Underroos and a large beach towel cape.  
  
"Theeeeeee sunnulcommout... too-morr-oww!" he bleated, waving his arms dramatically. "Betcha bottom dolla, that too-morr-ooooooo! They'll be sun!"  
  
"C'mon, dad!" the boy he had been called, running off the camera and dragging Charles Bing into the frame.  
  
"Just thinkin' about... tomorrow... clears away the cobwebs and... the sorrooooooow..." they sang together, trapped in the faded pastels of aging film.  
  
Chandler shook his head disbelievingly... and then his eyes bulged as a smaller boy of about four ran onto the television.  
  
"I wanna sing too," the little boy insisted.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Chandler replied. "But you need my cape, F-man. Ya gotta dress the part."  
  
"Okay," Faulkner said aimiably, sticking out his arms so that Chandler could attach the towel to him. "I only know the middle words."  
  
"We'll start there," Charles replied, swinging him up into his arms. "Okay? You start."  
  
"Toooooomorrow," Faulkner mumbled into Charles' neck, and Charles and Chandler joined in loudly.  
  
Chandler and Charles finished flamboyantly, with jazz hands. Faulkner tried, bowed, and hurled himself offscreen, towel-cape blazing behind him, on a mad quest for offscreen cookies.  
  
A dam broke inside Chandler's mind, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
***  
  
Chandler stepped out onto the deck, coffee cup in one hand, wincing a little at the still-new feel of his bare feet on wet wood. He leaned against the railing, watching the water foam over the rocks, and sipped, rubbing his tired eyes.  
  
He'd stayed up all night again, lost in the past. Reading his mother's diaries, leafing through photo albums while home movies played in the background. Filling in the holes, one by one... connecting threads springing up, the small mysteries of his life sliding into place.  
  
Chandler Bing, meet Chandler Bing.  
  
He's not who you thought he was.  
  
He ran his fingers over the deck of the railing. His railing. His house.  
  
He'd been born here, he'd discovered in the depths of his mother's notebooks. In the kitchen. His brother had died not too far away, was buried even closer. Megan had taken him to see the gravestone two days ago.  
  
It had been very, very small... nearly obscured completely by the flowers he'd laid down.  
  
His memories were growing, merging, forming a more coherent whole. Sometimes flashes, sometimes floods. He'd had more talks with Megan, begging for details, drawing stories out of her... and then out of Delores when Megan ran dry.  
  
He'd run the gamut of human feelings, sometimes inexplicably, bursting into tears or laughter without provocation. Buried deep within him, thirty years of bottled emotions were boiling up to the surface like lava, making their own channels through his reeling brain.  
  
He'd been loved. That was the revelation.  
  
He'd been loved, ferociously, passionately, by two people just like him, screwed-up and confused.  
  
But he'd been loved.  
  
It had been a hell of a week.  
  
"Dude, what'd you do, mug the Marlboro Man?"  
  
Chandler whirled. "Joe?"  
  
Joey stood wearily on the deck, red-eyed and clutching a duffel bag. "I don't know whether to yell at you or hug you, man, you had us all worried sick. C'mere!"  
  
Joey held out his arms and Chandler sagged into them, glancing nervously behind Joey.  
  
"They're not with me, ok? They think I'm at an audition in Chicago."  
  
"How in the hell did you find me?"  
  
Joey grinned mischeviously. "Called your slimy bastard agent from the DOOL office. Told him I was an NBC executive, just dyin' to buy the broadcast rights to your book... provided I could get the go-ahead from the author within the week, right? I put so many zeros on the end of my number, he fell all over himself telling me how to find you."  
  
"Reason number two why he could not be more fired," Chandler groaned.  
  
Joey sighed in relief. "That thing on the TV, that wasn't your idea?"  
  
"Hell, no," Chandler sighed. "C'mon in, man. I know how you feel about airplane food, I'll make you a sandwich."  
  
"Look," Joey said, following Chandler inside and setting his bag down on the couch, "I came down here to tell you somethin'. Monica didn't mean to erase your book, seriously. It was a total accident. She didn't even know that was why you were mad until she saw the TV."  
  
"She *accidentally* got on my computer, that she's always refused to touch, and *accidentally* overwrote my book with a note that said 'I Hate You'? Sorry, Joe... not buying it."  
  
"No, really, okay? She was trying to, y'know, write you a letter on the thing, and the clip-thingey got her confused. See, I don't really understand the story myself, but green squiggly lines were definitely involved. I mean, Monica's worse on a computer than I am, she can't even look up porn!" He looked around appreciatively. "Is that a picture of you in the bathtub?" He walked over to the mantlepiece. "Check it out, Chandler's little thing!"  
  
"Green squiggly..." Chandler mused, pouring Joey his own cup of coffee. "The... grammar checker?"  
  
"Whatever. She was trying to write you, and it kept tryin' to help and screwin' her up. She doesn't hate you, man, she got mad at the clippy thing and told it she hated *it*. She tried to save her letter thing, it threw up a bunch of crap, and she was so frustrated... she just hit the button until everything went back to normal, you know?"  
  
"Okay, that makes *some* sense," Chandler admitted, handing Joey his coffee. "But *why* was she writing me a letter?"  
  
Joey sighed. "Okay, Pheebs says you know about Brian, but look. Monica read your book before it got erased. Rachel cleared it all up for her last night, so that's good, but at the time, man... Monica thought you'd made her the serial killer."  
  
"Oh, god," Chandler said in horror.  
  
"And she was at work, all upset, and she ended up talking to Brian and drinking a lot." Joey replied. "That's when they kissed for like, a nanosecond. Monica was really upset. Then she went home and tried to write you a letter about it..."  
  
Joey shrugged, then turned serious. "Man, you have *got* to do something about the TV stories."  
  
"I stopped watching them after the first one," Chandler confessed. "I've been... kinda preoccupied, I guess."  
  
"Well, they're mean!" Joey said indignantly. "They're making Monica feel awful."  
  
"How's she doing?"  
  
"How do you think she's doin'? Your apartment's so clean, you could have major surgery in your toilet."  
  
Chandler winced.  
  
"Okay, Chandler, here it comes: your Joeymatum. We'll call the networks while you pack. I've got two tickets back to New York. Put your real clothes back on, and let's get the hell out of here."  
  
"I don't want to go," Chandler said softly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't want to go," Chandler repeated, louder.  
  
"Whaddya mean, you don't wanna go? Chandler, you *have* to go. Your wife's there. Your friends are there. Your *Joey's* there, hello!" He paused. "Well, normally."  
  
"It's just..." Chandler sprang out of his chair and began to pace nervously. "Joey, I... something happened to me, the night I got here. The caretaker's daughter, her name is Megan..."  
  
"Oh no, no, no," Joey said in horror. "Don't even be sayin' this shit to me, man, you are *married*!"  
  
"It's nothing like that!" Chandler snapped. "Let me finish my sentences, okay? She started telling me stuff... stuff about my parents, stuff about my family, stuff about my past. Did you know I had a little brother? That I actually died once? I had amnesia, Joe, honest to god *amnesia*, like you get every other week on your show! I'm... I'm sort of sorting through my childhood... I'm finding my family, Joe, a family I never knew."  
  
"*We're* your family," Joey said firmly.  
  
"Yes, you guys are my family too," Chandler said carefully. "But Joe... there's a *reason* psychologists don't start off saying 'tell me about your friends'. I've been so screwed up over my childhood... you of all people know that... and here is where I'm... unscrewing up."  
  
"You can unscrew up in New York."  
  
"No, I *can't*, Joe. I *need* to be here. I've been reading my mother's diaries, did I mention that? She has years and years of them. I didn't know her at all, Joe. Not one tiny bit. And my Dad... god... I've been talking to him on the phone. We've never talked like that, ever. It was... amazing, ok?"   
  
"Chandler, I love ya, but you're gettin' on that plane with me. Get your diaries and your whatever, even that lumberjack shirt if you've gotten attached, but you're coming home, okay? We need you."  
  
Chandler looked around the room in desperation, already feeling it sliding away from him. "I've never... felt this way about a *place* before..."  
  
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it. Get on the plane. Look, dude, bottom line... no amount of you makin' nice with Monica is gonna mean squat if you don't come home. You know it's true."  
  
"I know," Chandler admitted.  
  
"That's better," Joey cried, clapping Chandler on the back. "Now... where's my sandwich?"  
  
***  
  
"What time is it *now*?" Monica asked, pacing near the door.  
  
Rachel sighed, gently pulling a piece of cracker out of Emma's hair. "It's four-seventeen, Monica. Just like it was when you asked me thirty seconds ago. They're on their way! Calm down."  
  
"Sorry," Monica said, straightening a picture that was already straight.  
  
"Domedo," Emma added, and Rachel nodded, pushing the open box of cherry tomatoes towards Emma's hands. Emma reached for one and grinned a seed-smeared smile at Rachel. "Wubbooo."  
  
"I love you too, honey," Rachel smiled. "You ready for Teletubbies?"  
  
"Tubbeed!" Emma shrieked in delight, sliding out of the kitchen chair and bolting for the couch.  
  
Rachel caught her under one arm. "Emma, who's house are we at?"  
  
"Aunmonnifa."  
  
"And what does that mean?"  
  
"White couch," Emma sighed long-sufferingly, sticking out her hands and face to be cleaned with baby wipes.  
  
Monica crossed and stood behind Rachel, regarding the cute scene with a look of sadness. "See... this, this is what I need."  
  
"Well, stick out your hands," Rachel quipped, brandishing the baby wipe.  
  
"Rachel," Monica snapped as Rachel slid the video into the VCR, "You know what I mean. I need a baby. Chandler and I need a baby."  
  
Rachel sighed inwardly. At least Chandler's disappearance had *temporarily* stopped this broken record.  
  
"Don't you want a little cousin?" Monica asked Emma.  
  
"Tubbied," Emma replied firmly.  
  
"Here you go, sweetie," Rachel said, pressing "play" and pulling Monica into the kitchen by an arm.  
  
"Look, Monica. Do you really think this is the best time to be getting pregnant?"  
  
Monica wrapped her arms around herself uncomfortably. "I realize that things aren't the greatest between Chandler and I right now... but we've already lost almost three years! We can't afford to waste any more time."  
  
"Is that what you consider marriage to Chandler without kids? A waste of time?" Rachel asked carefully.  
  
Monica glared. "Are your three months as a psychology major going to keep popping up forever?"  
  
"I'm serious, Mon," Rachel sighed, sliding Emma's crackers back into the box. "And I'm warning you -- having a kid isn't going to magically fix your and Chandler's relationship."  
  
"I don't think that," Monica said defensively, while Rachel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, okay, maybe I do, but... how could it not?"  
  
"Monica, look," Rachel said sadly. "Look at this table, okay? Look how much mess I made, just giving Em a snack that I didn't even cook."  
  
"So? I like to clean."  
  
"No -- you like things to *be* clean. Big difference. If you liked to clean, you'd jump up and down and scream with joy every time someone made a mess. And this is *one* snack, we've been here what, two hours?"  
  
Monica shrugged, and Rachel pressed onwards. "And it's not just the mess. Having a child doesn't magically fix relationships -- it puts strain on them. How many times have I moved in and out of Ross' place?"  
  
"A lot," Monica admitted.  
  
"You say Chandler's bored with his real life, bored with talking to you, escapes into his books?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Hey Emma," Rachel called. "Who's got the hat?"  
  
"Dipsy hat!" Emma shrieked happily.  
  
"Is that so? Who's got the scooter?"  
  
"Po!"  
  
Rachel turned back to Monica. "The days I don't go out... this will be the most intellectually stimulating conversation I have. Do you really think Dipsy's *hat* is going to enthrall Chandler?"  
  
Clearly, Monica wasn't hearing a word she was saying. "Monica... Mon. You know what? I *don't* go out a lot. I can only go out when Emma's having a good day. The bad days, the screaming days, the nothing-makes-her-happy-and-I-don't-know-why days... you don't see those, okay?"  
  
"But Emma's such a little sweetie," Monica replied.  
  
Rachel lowered her voice to a whisper. "Monica, do you know what the 'little sweetie' did yesterday?"  
  
"What."  
  
"She wrote on the wall," Rachel whispered.  
  
"Kids do that, Rachel. Don't overreact."  
  
"She wrote on the wall with what was in her diaper when she woke up from her nap," Rachel finished smugly, savoring Monica's dawning horror.  
  
"She wrote with --"  
  
"Yup. A real masterpiece. She pretty much covered every square inch she could reach from her crib."  
  
"Why weren't you watching her?" Monica asked in shock.  
  
Rachel let out a snort of frustration. "Because she was *napping*, Monica. Normally, she cries when she wakes up. Yesterday, she felt artistic. If I watched her sleep, I'd lose the one hour a day I get to shower and clean and cook and make snacks and just generally deal with the wreckage."  
  
"Well, no offense, Rachel, but... you're *you*, okay? I'm *me*. Maybe if you were a little more organized..."  
  
Rachel held up a hand. "Never mind, Monica. Y'know what? Have kids. Have *lots* of kids. 'Cause I, I cannot *wait* to re-have this conversation with you once you do."  
  
"Thanks for kicking me when I'm down," Monica muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets.  
  
"I wasn't -- oh!" Rachel cried, hearing footsteps on the stairs.  
  
Monica whirled, brushing her hair into place with her hands.  
  
The doorknob turned. "Look what I brought!" Joey cried, slapping Chandler on the back.  
  
"Hey, guys," Chandler said quietly. "Hey, Mon."  
  
He moved towards her, but was stopped violently as Emma careened across the room and attached herself to his knees.  
  
"Uncablammber!"  
  
"Hey, kiddo," Chandler laughed, reaching down and picking her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Monica felt frustrated tears spring to her eyes. Dammit -- why couldn't he look like that at a daughter of their own?  
  
"Pull my feefer," Emma demanded, sticking out her finger.  
  
"Hey, now," Chandler grinned, smoothing back her curls, "Mommy's not supposed to know I taught you that."  
  
"Well, Mommy figured that one out a while ago," Rachel grinned, crossing to take Emma from him. "Hey Ems, why don't we go across the street and say hi to Daddy?"  
  
"Dadddeee!" Emma shrieked joyously, arms still around Chandler's neck. Monica swallowed a rising lump in her throat.  
  
"Yup, Daddy. So let's go see him, huh?" Rachel took Emma from Chandler and grabbed the diaper bag. "Glad you're back, Chandler. See you guys later."  
  
Rachel headed for the door, her hand clamping onto Joey's arm and dragging him with her.  
  
"Hey, what the -- um, yeah, bye, guys..." Joey called, as Rachel shut the door firmly behind them.  
  
"So, hey, I didn't quite get to finish this," Chandler said, crossing and kissing Monica on the lips.  
  
Her mouth never opened, and Chandler stepped back. "Mon? Look, I'm sorry I worried you, but under the circumstances, you gotta understand..."  
  
"Who's 'Megan Mitchell'?" Monica snapped.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
"She's the caretaker's daughter."  
  
"You called Phoebe from her phone," Monica pointed out, rearranging a fruit bowl that didn't need it.  
  
Chandler set his backpack down with an angry thump. "Well, welcome home to me."  
  
"Well, what do you expect?" Monica said, putting hands to hips. "You run off, you end up with some *woman*..."  
  
"Monica, the caretaker sent her over to check on me. She did my laundry, made me a casserole, and yes -- let me borrow her cellphone. None of which was particularly erotic the last time I checked, and hey -- none of which compares to gettin' smoochy with the waiters at work!"  
  
"You know about that?" Monica stiffened.  
  
"Well yeah! Phoebe told me!"  
  
"Oooh, I am going to *kill* her!"  
  
"Not helping your case, Mon," Chandler drawled.  
  
"You really didn't do anything with that Megan girl?"  
  
"I helped her load the dishwasher! Does that count?"  
  
"No," Monica sighed, dropping into a chair. "I'm sorry, sweetie, it's just that I thought... and then Richard told me..."  
  
"Hey-hey, *what*?"  
  
"Oh, god," Monica groaned. "Don't get all Richard-y. My dad called, and he was at the house. No big deal."  
  
"No big -- so you felt compelled to have a heart-to-heart chat with *Richard* about our marital problems?"  
  
"Well, it's not like they weren't all over the *news*," Monica snapped.  
  
Chandler rubbed his head. "Look, Mon, I'm sorry about that... you have to understand, that wasn't my idea."  
  
"You could have cleared it up with one phone call, Chandler. Instead, you let me spend a *week* as the Most Hated Woman In Publishing."  
  
"Because you erased my book! Which hello, Monica -- you *did*!"  
  
"By accident!"  
  
"I didn't know that! What the hell were you doing on my computer anyway?"  
  
"Oh *god*!" Monica cried. "Here we go again. It's all about your precious computer, your precious book."  
  
"Well, yeah, Mon, it *was* pretty precious! How would you feel if you spent months and months on something, and I destroyed it?"  
  
"I've spent years on this *marriage*, and you're destroying *it*!"  
  
"Oh-ho, you're helping!"  
  
"You know what?" Monica snapped. "Since you love your computer so much, maybe you'd like to sleep with it!"  
  
Chandler picked up his backpack and marched into the guestroom.  
  
***  
  
Dammit.  
  
Chandler threw his backpack across the bed, sending papers flying, and dropped onto the bed after it.  
  
The open window blew the curtains inward with a blast of sound. It was never quiet here, never. Horns, noise, music, neighbors, cars and more cars.   
  
And so damned New York humid sticky pavement concrete hot.   
  
In his bed at the house, there had been no sound but the river rushing by, nothing coming through the window but the cool breeze off the water and the smell of the green.  
  
How in the hell could he be homesick for a place he'd spent a week at?  
  
Oh, yeah. And no one *yelling* at him.  
  
That might explain it.  
  
He pulled one of his mother's journals out of his backpack, flipped it open, and closed it again.  
  
Reading his mother's words in her house, surrounded by her things, had felt... almost holy, like a ritual. Reading them here felt... well... weird. Blasphemous. Robbed of the magic. Like a baptismal font in a McDonald's.  
  
He slid the journal back into his backpack and put his chin in his hands, wishing like hell he hadn't let Joey talk him into coming back down here so soon. He should have called Monica first, worked something out while he was still in the womblike safety of the house, where his mind seemed to work better, where he didn't feel like he was under attack every second.  
  
The house had been an instant home, had wrapped itself around him, seducing him with sense-memory of a time when he'd been really, truly happy... welcoming him back with open arms. He'd fallen in love with it, hopelessly and helplessly.  
  
It was projection and he knew it... the house and his mother had become entwined in his mind, the house a manifestation of all the maternal feeling he had, until a few days ago, consciously believed her to be without.   
  
The house was an avatar of something he'd never had... and always, always, desperately wanted... running through life blindly searching. And he'd found it there.  
  
This apartment... would always be Monica's and Monica's alone. He could pay the rent until he died, and it would always be her kingdom. Her rules, her furniture, her unique stamp on everything.  
  
Once, he had loved this place for that very reason.  
  
Now, he felt like the visiting team, stepping up to bat amidst a chorus of boos. The sterile perfection, the 'charming clutter' that wasn't either, the faint, never-fading undersmell of soap and bleach mixing with the charred tar scent rising from the streets.  
  
He realized he was starting to see Monica in those terms. Angry. Cold. Sterile.  
  
He wanted to go home. He wanted to lie in the big bed underneath the window, watching the light reflected from the river as it danced across the ceiling. He wanted to drink coffee in his kitchen, beer on his porch. Megan had invited him to a potluck tomorrow, and he wanted to go. His father had promised to come down for a visit, and he wanted to taste his famous chocolate chip cookies.  
  
He wanted the sound of the rain, and the smell of the grass, and the silken feel of the air, and the overwhelming sense of gothic mystery that seemed to hang in the humid air, potential on the wind, pure fuel for his romantic imagination.  
  
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it," Joey's voice repeated in his head.  
  
Chandler sat upright, mind suddenly swarming with inspiration.  
  
Write a book about it.  
  
Well, hell. Maybe he just would.  
  
***  
  
Monica rolled over, fluffing her pillow for the fifth time.  
  
Chandler's homecoming hadn't gone at all the way she'd wanted. Why had she had to bring up that girl right off the bat? It had just sent them careening into a new fight.  
  
She sighed. Maybe she should go in the guest room, crawl in with him, try to talk.   
  
And then she heard the noise start.  
  
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.  
  
Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.  
  
Monica grabbed Chandler's pillow, put it over her ear, and went to sleep. 


	6. High Powered Equipment

Some sexual content in this one. I didn't think it was bad enough to give it an "R" rating, but if you disagree, let me know and I'll switch.  
  
-------------------------------  
  
2004  
  
Monica fumbled for her keys at the door of the apartment, nose twitching. Was Joey in one of his sauce-making fugue states again? The hall was filled with the smell of oregano and basil.  
  
She let herself in the apartment, shocked to see Chandler standing over the stove with an apron on.  
  
"You're... you're *cooking*," she said flatly.  
  
"Yeah, I am," he smiled. "I thought I'd make you dinner, since you cooked all day."  
  
"I thought you were writing..."  
  
"Well, I did, for a while. While you were at work. It's something Rachel suggested, I thought I'd take her up on it. Wanna taste?"  
  
He extended the wooden spoon in her direction, and Monica approached cautiously. Toast and the occasional pancake aside, Chandler wasn't exactly known for his fine cuisine.  
  
"It's good," she said in shock, licking her lips.  
  
"Yeah! I got the recipe from..." Don't, *don't* say 'Megan', not after Monica's reaction last night... "A cookbook at the house."  
  
Monica looked around the room, taking a step back. "Wha... what are all these... *plants* doing here?"  
  
"Do you like them?" Chandler wiped his hands on his apron. "I thought they made the air smell nice."  
  
"What's wrong with the way my air smells?" Monica huffed.  
  
"Nothing! Nothing! Your air smells great! I just... like the plant-smell. Hey, hey, look at the balcony...!"  
  
Monica ran for the window, Chandler following her nervously. He hadn't been sure if this would go well, and so far, it wasn't.  
  
"What is all that stuff?"  
  
"It's herbs! It's a little herb-garden thing. I got the stuff at the hardware store. You know, you always watch 'The Naked Chef', and you thought it was so cool that he could get fresh herbs from his windowsill..."  
  
He watched her face, his stomach sinking. "There's rosemary, and tarragon, and all kinds of stuff you like to cook with..."  
  
"But all that... *dirt*..." Monica whispered in horror. "It'll get on the balcony..."  
  
"No it won't," Chandler said earnestly. "I'll take care of it, Monica, seriously. I'm here anyway."  
  
"I cleaned my study!" he added desperately.  
  
Monica spun and opened the guest room door.  
  
"You... changed everything," she said ominously.  
  
"Well, I'm... in there a lot. And it wasn't very 'boy', y'know?"  
  
"You could have *asked* me," Monica pointed out. "I would have been *glad* to redecorate it for you!"  
  
"C'mon, Mon, I... I pay the rent, don't I? Can't I decorate one room?"  
  
"Do you *remember* who you married?" Monica cried. "And it's not one room! It's that room, and this *new stuff* in the main room, and the *new stuff* on the balcony! That's three rooms out of five! That's the *majority* of the rooms! I'm me! You *know* me! You can't just change stuff!"  
  
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't think! Look, what if it's just *one* room? I'll take all the new stuff and put it in my room, okay? You can close the door, and never have to see it, ever."  
  
"*Your room*? What, are we *roommates* now? We're *married*, Chandler!" She pointed to the bedroom door. "*That's* your room! Our room!"  
  
"Monica..." he tried to count to ten, but felt his anger rising anyway. "I work here, I work in there! Y'know, in a *year*, we've gone from totally broke to rather wealthy, because of what I do in that room! I think my job has *earned* its own room, okay? It's not my room, all right? It's my *job's* room."  
  
"I *hate* your job!" Monica burst into tears.  
  
"You... you *what*?"  
  
"You don't pay a bit of attention to me, Chandler! You're always in your little hidey-hole, tap-tap-tapping! Y'know, I married you to spend *time* with you! I don't *care* about how much money you make! I just want to *see* you! I didn't think that would be a problem!"  
  
"Honey..." Chandler went to her. "I *know* that. I screwed up and I'm really sorry. But that's what I'm trying to do now! I'm just gonna write while you're at work, ok? It'll be just like my old job, only it won't make me miserable."  
  
"Yeah, *right*," Monica sniffed. "You'll end up in there, night after night..."  
  
"But I *won't*," Chandler replied soothingly. "I learned my lesson, okay? You'll see. There's room enough for you, me, and my writing. We'll make it work, I swear."  
  
Monica looked up through a haze of tears, and Chandler hugged her tight.  
  
"Look. I did something else today. It's not like the plants, you'll really like it."  
  
"What's that?" she sniffed.  
  
"I fired Jacob on his *ass* for what he did to you."  
  
Monica's eyes widened disbelievingly. "Y-you... you did?"  
  
"Yeah, I did." He stroked her cheek with his thumb.  
  
Monica leaned up and kissed him hard on the mouth. Chandler groaned happily and wrapped his arms around her.  
  
"C'mon, Bing," she growled sexily. "Let's do it in the plants."  
  
***  
  
"Delta Daaaaaawn," Monica belted at the saute station, expertly flipping a filet. "What's that floooower you have ooooooon..."  
  
"Got things patched up, huh," a deep voice behind her said.  
  
Monica whirled. "Richard, hey!"  
  
"Glad to see you so happy," he grinned. "I just popped in to make sure you were okay. And since you are, I'm poppin' back out."  
  
He held up a hand in goodbye.  
  
"Richard, wait!" she called. "I never gave you your pie."  
  
"Well, I could eat some of this parsley instead," he joked, reaching for a little bowl of it.  
  
"Okay, never, *never* touch my mise-en-place," Monica snapped happily. "But I wanted to tell you, you were absolutely right! And things are sooo, soooooo much better now."  
  
"Glad to hear it. Look... I should go."  
  
"Yeah, I should saute... hey, gimme a hug, though."  
  
"You're covered in fish," Richard laughed.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Monica looked down at herself. "Um... here."  
  
She extended a stick of broccoli rabe, and Richard laughingly shook its 'hand'.  
  
"See you around," he smiled, pushing his way out of the service door.  
  
***  
  
Chandler wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, flipping pages in his atlas.  
  
"Megan Mitchell," the voice on the other line said.  
  
"Megan, hey! It's Chandler."  
  
"Well, you sound a hell of a lot cheerier than the last time we talked... things go better with your wife?"  
  
"Much, much better," he smiled. "Look, I need a favor."  
  
"Liver go out already?"  
  
"Not yet... I've got this bird book, but it's not telling me crap. I need the name of that owl we heard Wednesday, the super-spooky one."  
  
"Um, I think it was a barn owl... why?"  
  
"I'm writing a new book! And I want to set it at the house, y'know. Sort of a Southern Gothic, ghost-story kind of thing."  
  
"I thought you were gonna re-write the last one?"  
  
"I've *written* that already. I tried, but I was bored. Been there, wrote that. This is what I wanna do now."  
  
"Ghost stories, huh?" Megan said. "Oooh, y'know... I've got a bunch of books of creepy stories that actually happened around here. You want me to mail them to you?"  
  
"That would be *great*," Chandler said. "How are you doing?"  
  
"Eh," Megan replied. "A little crappy at the moment. Nothing that won't blow over."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Well, my stupid-ass fiance isn't my fiance anymore... and he got the apartment. So I've been staying with my friend Susy, who is like... okay, you told me about your friend Joey? Imagine living with him in a *studio* apartment."  
  
"Free sex show every night?" Chandler guessed.  
  
"Every night, every day... you know, there's nothing like trying to read when she's with Giovanni."  
  
"Giovanni?"  
  
"One of her regulars. He *orgasms* in *opera*."  
  
"Good god," Chandler shuddered.  
  
"I've got a lead on a place, but it's kinda far from work, and I... sorry, god, I must be boring you to death."   
  
"Megan. Hey. Move into the house."  
  
Silence on the line, then: "What?"  
  
"Move into the house. Seriously. It's a great house, I know you love it, and it's empty."  
  
"I can't move into your *house*, Chandler...?"  
  
"Why not? You're the part-time caretaker, right? So be the full-time caretaker."  
  
"I... that's so sweet, but..."  
  
"Megan, c'mon. It drives me crazy thinking of the house just sitting around empty. If I can't be there, I want you to be. And that way I'll know the house is happy... you'll be close to your mom... it'll be great."  
  
"Chandler, I..."  
  
"Please? Okay, temporarily? Just until you find an apartment that you like. I don't like the thought of you trying to sleep to the sounds of grunting, slapping, and 'Aida', okay?"  
  
Megan burst into laughter. "Yeah, yeah, okay, you sold me. But it's just temporary."  
  
"That's fine."  
  
"Chandler, thank you so, so much. You really don't know what this means to me."  
  
"Well, it means a lot to me, too. Seeya, Leia."  
  
"Bye, Han."  
  
Chandler set the phone down with a grin and resumed typing.  
  
***  
  
The egg timer went off, and Monica put the magazine she'd been pretending to read down and grabbed for the stick.  
  
One line.  
  
Dammit!  
  
She threw the test in the trash, setting the magazine on the back of her toilet. Y'know, if her period was going to show up every damn month, at least it could do her a favor and be on *time* so she didn't get her friggin' hopes up.  
  
She walked out of the bathroom, wiping a tear from her eye, and looked out the window at Chandler's container garden. He'd been true to his word... there wasn't a speck of dirt on the balcony. How he pulled that off, she'd never know.  
  
Something was off, though... and it wasn't just his newfound obsession with plants. Chandler woke up when she woke up, usually even made her breakfast, was always done writing before she came home, kept the house tidy, hung out at the coffeeshop with everyone, made love to her at night. He'd even cut way down on the stupid jokes and begun acting like an actual grown-up... she'd taken him to a party at her parents a few nights ago, and not only had he *not* humiliated her, he'd charmed the socks off the other guests.   
  
In short, he was perfect -- exactly what she wanted.  
  
And since when had *Chandler* been *perfect*?  
  
He was acting like... well, he was acting like Richard. Not that she'd ever say that to his face.  
  
Maybe it was the way Chandler kept sneaking nervous glances at her. It was something that used to annoy the crap out of her -- he'd rent a movie that he loved and didn't think she'd like, and he'd spent the whole thing watching *her* to see her reactions. It made her feel uncomfortable, on the spot, like she *had* to laugh out loud at every joke or look enthralled at every action sequence.  
  
And now he looked at her like that all the time... that desperate, oh-god-please-like-this expression permanently glued to his face.  
  
What was it that he'd said once? That she was high-maintenance, but that he liked maintaining her?  
  
Monica was starting to suspect that he didn't like it so much anymore.  
  
Just how unhappy was he?  
  
Would it really have hurt to let him put some plants in the living room? Was it so terrible if a speck of dirt fell from the garden he adored onto the balcony? It wasn't like the pigeons didn't crap on it anyway.  
  
How much time did she spend maintaining *Chandler*?  
  
The phone rang, and she eyed the caller ID. "Chandler Bing".  
  
She picked it up with a smile. "Hey, honey..."  
  
"Um... hi..." a feminine voice said. "Um, may I speak to Chandler Bing, please?"  
  
"He's not here," Monica said, suspicion growing. "Who is this?"  
  
"Hi! You must be Monica! It's nice to finally say hi. I'm Megan Mitchell... the caretaker?"  
  
Well, that explained the Caller ID. "Ah, hi... is there a problem with our house?"  
  
"Oh no, no... your house is fine... it's just, I ran into Donald Crane at the store today, he's like, the oldest guy alive... and he told me this awesome ghost story. I was gonna give it to Chandler for the book."  
  
Huh. So this girl, unlike Monica, knew what Chandler's new book was about. In-ter-es-ting.  
  
"Ah, okay. Well, he just went out for plant food, he should be back in an hour or so. Will you still be at the house, or should I have him call your cellphone?"  
  
"Oh, he can call me here. I'm having a little party, gonna be in all night."  
  
"But you're at the house... aren't you?"  
  
"Yup... hey, or, you could just give me his e-mail address. I can type the story up on his Mom's computer and send it to him."  
  
"I'll just have him call you," Monica replied stiffly.  
  
"Okay, thanks! Bye!"  
  
"Bye," Monica said, hanging up the phone and tapping it against her chin.  
  
She carried the phone over to the mail basket and pulled out their long-distance bill, spreading it across the kitchen table, counting.  
  
Forty-seven times.  
  
He'd called that girl forty-seven times in a month.  
  
The girl on the phone had sounded... well... breezy. Fun. Someone who wouldn't give a damn if he turned the whole house into a jungle room, the kind of girl who *would* have sex on the balcony... in a heartbeat.  
  
It would probably be her idea.  
  
She started dialing numbers on the phone in her hand.  
  
"Hello?" Joey said, in a sultry bass tone.  
  
"Joey, it's me."  
  
"Ah, hey Mon," he replied, voice an octave higher.  
  
"Hey, Joe... had a question for you... you met Megan down in Georgia, right?"  
  
"Yeah, for about five minutes, why?"  
  
"Well, she just called here, and we had this *great* conversation," Monica said, still glaring at the spread-out phone bill. It was only half a lie, right?   
  
"Yeah, she's pretty cool."  
  
"So what's she like?"  
  
"Uh, she works with animals, she's some kind of vet-thing that isn't a real vet. But she writes, too, like Chandler does."  
  
"Is she cute?"  
  
"Oh-ho, yeah. Little short for my tastes, though. She looks kinda like... huh. Drew Barrymore."  
  
"In E.T.?" Monica asked hopefully.  
  
Joey laughed lewdly. "Nuh-uh."  
  
"Thanks, Joey," Monica said, struggling to keep her voice even. "I gotta go."  
  
Wonderful. Perfect. Special.   
  
So Super-Fun Girl looked like the celebrity whose 'Guess' ad Chandler and Joey had kept framed over their toilet for almost a decade.  
  
Forty-seven times. And that was just *his* calls to *her*. How many times had that girl called here? To Monica's own apartment? Her home?  
  
The door swung open. "Hey, Mon," Chandler called, hefting a bag of Miracle-Gro.   
  
"Hey, honey." She took deep breaths, gathering up the phone bill quickly and hiding it under the table. "Um, can I talk to you about something?"  
  
"Sure," he replied, setting the bag down. "What's up?"  
  
"Well, I... I don't know how to say this, honey... but I think you might want to fire that Megan girl."  
  
"What?" Chandler looked at her blankly.  
  
"Well, she just called here, and I... I really think she's taking liberties. She's making long-distance phone calls on the phone at our house... she's using your mother's computer... and I'm pretty sure she's having a *party* at our house! I know you like her, but... I'm sure you can find a better caretaker, sweetie... someone who's more responsible."  
  
Chandler laughed. "Mon, it's okay... she lives there."  
  
"What?" Monica asked, struggling for calm, hand clenching on the bill in her hands.  
  
"I told her to move in. She and her fiancee broke up, it's a big mess, she was living with this female Joey... so I told her to move into the house."  
  
Oh. My. God. "You... *gave*... our house... to some girl?"  
  
*That* girl?  
  
"I didn't *give* her the house, Mon. I just let her stay there for a while. It's temporary. She *is* the caretaker, after all. She's just a live-in caretaker now."  
  
Breathe. Breathe. "Don't you think this is the kind of thing you should have discussed with me first?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mon. It just didn't occur to me," Chandler said in exasperation. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't ask you about it, okay?"  
  
"Well, I suppose *one* more thing you're not telling me couldn't hurt," Monica said airily.  
  
Chandler froze. "What... what is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Oh, *nothing*," Monica cooed. "I was just... looking at the phone bill, you know? And your *forty-seven* calls to the girl you gave our house to."  
  
Monica slapped the phone bill onto the kitchen table.  
  
"Oh, Monica, for god's sake. She's doing *research* for me."  
  
"How stupid do you think I am?" Monica countered. "You leave me and end up with this girl. You come back, you call her twice a day, you give her our *house*, and I'm honestly supposed to believe that nothing's going on?"  
  
"Yes, you are! Because nothing *is* going on! She's my *friend*."  
  
"You have a picture of her in your study!"  
  
"She's five and has her arm around my dead brother! It's not like she's posing in a thong!"  
  
"I don't want her living there, Chandler."  
  
"Monica, be reasonable..."   
  
"I *am* being reasonable! Apparently, I'm the only one! A house is a major investment! That house is probably the most valuable thing we own! You don't just let some woman move into it! She could burn it down, or... is she even paying rent?"  
  
"Why would she pay rent? She's the caretaker, living there is her job!"  
  
"That's a hell of a 'fringe benefit', Chandler! I wish someone would pay me to live here!"  
  
"C'mon, Mon... we're actually getting a deal, here. Full-time caretakers cost a lot of money, and we're getting one for free!"  
  
"We're not getting one for *free*, Chandler! We could be making a ton of money renting that house... didn't you say it's on the water? Or we could sell it, and get a nice house of our own, *here*."  
  
"We are *not* selling that house," Chandler cried.  
  
"Okay, okay, fine. We could at least rent it out."  
  
"I don't want a bunch of strangers walking around in there!"  
  
"But it's okay for *her*, huh? Do you even realize the hole you're digging yourself?"  
  
"Digging a -- I'm not digging a hole! *You're* digging a hole and throwing me into it!"  
  
"Okay, bottom line time," Monica cried. "I want that girl out of our house. I don't want her living there, I don't want her working there, I don't want her driving by the mailbox, and I *definitely* don't want her calling here!"  
  
"Her family has been taking care of that house since before I was *born*," Chandler said, his jaw squaring.  
  
"I... don't... care!"  
  
"I do!"  
  
"Are you seriously going to sit there and tell me that the damn *caretaker* on a house you've only bothered to visit *once* is more important to you than your wife's feelings?"  
  
"Whatever, *Emily*," Chandler hissed, hefting his bag of Miracle-Gro.  
  
"What did you just call me?" Monica said, soft and dangerous.  
  
"Called ya Emily! Cause you're being exactly like her! Only this is even more stupid, because there is *nothing* between Megan and me!"  
  
"You know," Monica hissed. "I don't know if you've *noticed*, but Emily was *right* about Ross and Rachel. Or hadn't you noticed *Emma*?"  
  
"I'm not firing my friend," Chandler insisted. "You can't ask me to do that. It's not fair."  
  
"I want to go down there," Monica said suddenly, crossing her arms.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's our summer house. It's summer. I want to go down there."  
  
"Do you actually want to go... or do you just want me to kick Megan out so we can go?"  
  
"I think we should *go*. I think it will be *fun*. I think we should take the *whole gang*."  
  
Chandler froze, not trusting Monica's sudden brightness. His first impulse was to say no, but...  
  
If Monica actually saw the house... actually met Megan and saw how harmless she was... maybe she'd fall in love with both. Maybe she'd want to live down there part of the year.  
  
"I'll call Megan and tell her," he said, reaching for the phone.  
  
Monica stopped his hand, staring into his eyes. "*I'll* call her."  
  
Chandler looked into her eyes. There was no fighting her on this one.   
  
"Yeah, okay," he sighed. "I'll go... fertilize my plants."  
  
***  
  
"Wow," Phoebe giggled as they unloaded the van. "I haven't seen your 'Happy Hair' since Barbados, Mon."  
  
Monica shot her The Look, and Phoebe's mouth snapped shut.  
  
"Fun trip," she muttered to Mike.  
  
"No shit," he hissed back.  
  
"Okay, you guys," Chandler said awkwardly. "Be kind of careful on the deck, here..."  
  
He led the way, heart erupting at the first glimpse of the house, lit up in the night. He breathed deeply, reveling in the smell that he hadn't been able to recreate with an entire apartment stuffed full of houseplants.  
  
Home.  
  
"Oh, it's so *cute*," Rachel breathed, not noticing the grateful glance Chandler shot her. "Emma, look at the house!"  
  
Monica and Ross sneezed suddenly, in unison.  
  
Chandler unlocked the door, swinging it open, smiling helplessly to himself.  
  
"I should put Emma to bed, Chandler," Rachel said. "Which room is ours?"  
  
"Either one at the top of the stairs," Chandler said, running his hand lightly over the kitchen table.  
  
"We're gonna go to bed, too," Phoebe said, pulling Mike's hand. "Y'know, the jet lag."  
  
"It's the same time zone, Pheebs," Ross pointed out, barely covering his grin.  
  
"Fine, Ross, we're going to go have sex now. Bye!"  
  
Mike waved happily as Phoebe pulled him up the stairs.  
  
"Single Boy gets the couch, right?" Joey asked, hefting his duffel bag.  
  
"Yeah, Joe... sorry."  
  
He found himself suddenly alone with Monica, who was pacing the kitchen... touching, evaluating.  
  
"What... what do you think?" he said breathlessly.  
  
"It's... cute," she replied. Her 'cute' didn't sound anything like Rachel's.  
  
Chandler put his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to rock back and forth nervously.  
  
"How come Megan didn't take her... stuff with her?" Monica asked.  
  
"She did. This is Mom's stuff."  
  
"But your mom's apartment was so *nice*," Monica said in confusion.   
  
Chandler felt like he'd been gutshot.   
  
"I didn't mean anything bad, sweetie," Monica soothed. "It's just... this stuff is so... old and beat-up. I mean, Nora was so elegant. It's just hard to imagine her liking... this." Monica crossed to the cookie jar. "I mean... come on, did she steal this from Phoebe?"  
  
Chandler continued to stand in horror, and Monica touched his arm. "Oh, hon, don't look like that. The house is cute! We can get new furniture... we'll get this place all fixed up, it'll be great."  
  
"C'mon, sit down." Chandler let Monica guide him into a chair. "Just imagine, okay?" Monica roamed the kitchen, hands up and gesturing in the air. "We take all this old stuff out. We could put a nice Wolff range right here... maybe a SubZero right here... some new cabinets... and we could paint the walls... hmm. Oooh, ooh, I have it... aubergine!"  
  
She considered. "Or maybe eggplant. I'd have to think."  
  
"New floors... we could get that great Pergo stuff... of course, we'd have to do something about that railing, once we had kids. Oh... and we could glass in the fireplace, get gas logs..."  
  
"I *like* the fireplace," Chandler said weakly.  
  
"I do too, honey, but a real fire? I mean, besides whoa, how dangerous can you get, we're talking ash everywhere, and firewood... that'll bring bugs into the house."  
  
Monica cast her eye around the room, already seeing it redecorated. She clapped her hands. "Show me the rest of the house! This place has so much *potential*!"  
  
"I want to go to bed," Chandler said woodenly.  
  
Monica gave him a seductive smile. "Country air, huh? Let me go change into something that I think you'll like."  
  
***  
  
"Aubergine," Chandler snapped, flinging his pants across a chair. "Friggin' *aubergine*."  
  
His socks joined his pants, and Chandler slid into the bed, groaning happily. Ohhhhhhhhh yeah. He'd missed this bed.  
  
He squirmed joyously, letting the soft, cool flannel slide over him, reveling in it. Everything in this bed was wonderful to touch, no place to lay that wasn't comfortable... it was like being on ecstasy every night.  
  
And the sound. The river. It got into his brain, slowed his breathing, made his heart beat slower. Chandler closed his eyes and let out a sigh of contentment, already half-asleep.  
  
He heard the door squeak open and cracked an eyelid.  
  
"Hey, you," Monica whispered. She was wearing a long silk nightgown and leaning against the doorway.   
  
"Well hey," he replied, feeling considerably more awake.  
  
"I found a tape player," she grinned, and Chandler's heart sank as she pushed the "play" button.  
  
Enya. Again. Why was Monica so turned on by music that made him want to take a nap?  
  
Monica crossed to her side of the bed, leaned over, and shut the window.  
  
"Hard to hear the music for that noise," she smiled.  
  
She pulled open the covers to slide in, putting a hand down to steady herself... then pulled it back in horror.  
  
"Chandler?"  
  
"Mmm-hmm?"  
  
"The sheets are all... clammy."  
  
"Well yeah, Mon... it's kinda damp here, with the river and all..."  
  
"I guess no one ever taught 'Megan' how to shut a window?"  
  
"C'mon, Mon... just come to bed, please?"  
  
"Chandler, that's gross. I mean, how long has it been since anyone slept in this bed? There could be fungus, or mildew..."  
  
"Monica, c'mon, you can differentiate brands of detergent at 500 yards. These sheets were washed, what? Yesterday? This morning?"  
  
"Chandler, I'm not sleeping in a wet bed. I'm sorry, it's just unhygienic."  
  
"Okay... what if we sleep on *top* of the bed?"  
  
"That'd be better," Monica said, nibbling a fingernail. "We can go tomorrow and get some real sheets. There *are* stores around here, right?"  
  
Chandler bit back a hundred sarcastic responses, reluctantly sliding out of bed. "There are stores. We'll go tomorrow."  
  
"Could we... put something down on it?" Monica said nervously, looking at the bed as if it were crawling with the Ebola virus.  
  
"What, like a *tarp*?"  
  
"No, silly," Monica laughed. "Some fresh blankets or something."  
  
"I'll see what I can find."  
  
He headed for the living room in his boxer shorts, rummaging through closets, finally pulling out a stack of linen tablecloths.  
  
"Will these do?" he asked wearily, displaying them to Monica.  
  
"Oh, linen... that's so expensive," Monica sighed, pulling the pillows off the bed and setting them aside with a look of distaste. "But yeah, okay, since there's no other option."  
  
They finally settled down on top of the tablecloths, struggling to get comfortable on the starched fabric. Chandler kissed Monica on the neck.  
  
"Honey, I love you, but I can't get in the mood on top of a petri dish," Monica sighed. "It's hard enough just to get to sleep. Rain check?"  
  
"Rain check," Chandler groaned, rolling over and trying to get comfortable on his arm with Enya's "Sail Away" ringing inside his ears.  
  
***  
  
"Mornin', children," Chandler called, walking out onto the deck. The others were already outside, Phoebe pouring coffee from a carafe into everyone's cups. "Whatcha doin', Ross?"  
  
"This view is spectacular," Ross cried, peering into his binoculars. "Oh my god, is that a Bachman's Sparrow?"  
  
"Geek," Rachel coughed playfully into her fist.  
  
"It's an endangered *species*, Rachel," Ross said indignantly. "Aimophila aestivalis. I never thought I'd see one. Hand me my bird guide!"  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the man I sleep with," Rachel announced, giving him a kiss on the cheek and handing him his bird book.  
  
Ross put down the binoculars to page through the book, and Joey took them, raising them to his eyes. "I don't see any bird... whoa. Now *that's* my kind of scenery! Come to Joey, chicky chick."  
  
"Did you see the sparrow?" Ross asked excitedly.  
  
"Naw, there's a super-hot girl in a bikini and small shorts bending over." Joey leaned over the railing. "Hey, she's standing up... oh, okay, it's Megan!" He put down the glasses and waved. "Hi, Megan!"  
  
"Joey," Ross sighed. "As a general rule, if you can only see things with binoculars, they can't see you."  
  
"I can see her from here," Joey protested. "Look, she's that little hot dot over there."  
  
"Why can Joey see Megan from our deck?" Monica asked Chandler in honeyed tones.  
  
"'Cause she moved back in with her mom, who lives down the street."  
  
"Ah," Monica said, stirring her coffee. "Isn't *that* nice. And how sweet of her to put on a show!"  
  
"Y'know," Chander said, just as lightly, "I'm bettin' she doesn't *know* that perverts are checking out her ass with high-powered equipment."  
  
"I'd like to show her some high-powered equipment," Joey leered.  
  
"Baby! Baby! Baby in earshot!" Rachel snapped, covering Emma's ears with her hands.  
  
"Why don't we invite her over?" Monica said suddenly.  
  
Chandler managed to keep his eyeballs in their sockets. "You... want... to invite Megan over?"  
  
"Well, sure!" Monica trilled. "Joey obviously likes her, she's your buddy... I bet they'd hit it off! And Joey's the only one here alone, it's not very fair to him, is it? Didn't you tell me she was single now?"  
  
"Yeah, but..."  
  
"You don't... have a *problem* with Joey asking Megan out, do you?" Monica said sweetly.  
  
"Of course not," Chandler said through gritted teeth.  
  
***  
  
"I'm glad we did this," Monica said happily, stirring the potato salad. "This is *fun*."  
  
"Easy for you to say," Phoebe sighed, chopping tomatoes. "You didn't get bitten by a duck."  
  
"No, no, I didn't..." Monica replied, looking through the sliding-glass door to where Joey was bent low over Megan, running his hand down her arm. "But I'm having a *great* time."  
  
"Joey seems to be doing well with Chandler's little friend," Phoebe remarked, just a touch snappily.  
  
"Well, Chandler says she's a great girl," Monica grinned. "I'm sure she'll make Joey *very* happy."  
  
"You sound *awfully* pleased about that," Phoebe said suspiciously.  
  
"I want Joey to be happy! He's my friend!"  
  
"Uh-huh," Phoebe replied.  
  
"Okay, Pheebs... veggie burgers are done," Chandler called, carrying in a plate from the screened-in porch. "Mon, can you hand me those hot dogs?"  
  
"Sure," she handed them over. "Isn't this great?"  
  
"It's swell." He took the hot dogs and retreated back to the grill, handing the plate to Ross. "Here ya go."  
  
"Thanks." Ross started laying hot dogs down. "Hey, man... can I ask you something?"  
  
"Sure..."  
  
"Are you okay? You were so gung-ho to come down here, and now you're all bummed out. Something happen?"  
  
"Eh... Mon's just sort of stuck me between a rock and a hard place."  
  
"How so?" Ross poked sausages with his spatula.  
  
"Well, Megan, basically. She's my friend, she *just* got dumped, she's totally vulnerable right now. But Monica thinks I've got a crush on her or something... which I so *don't*..."  
  
Chandler took a swig of beer. "So basically, my choices are standing by while Joey takes total advantage of her, or intervening and convincing Monica that I'm in *luuuuv*."  
  
"Well, you can see why Monica would think that," Ross said. "I mean she, she is *hot*."  
  
"Thanks, Ross," Chander said dryly. "That helps! Say that *more*."  
  
"Just sayin'," Ross mumbled.  
  
"Look, Ross. I'm married to your sister. I'm in love with your sister. The only person I think is hot... is your sister, ok?"  
  
"Okay, please quit saying 'my sister' and 'hot' in the same sentence."  
  
"See, now you know how I feel about everyone drooling over Megan, okay? I grew up with her, for cryin' out loud."  
  
"Well, Chandler... I mean, Megan's over thirty. If she hasn't learned to handle Joeys by now, that's her problem. She doesn't seem to *mind*, does she? Maybe she'd like her own slice of hot Tribbiani."  
  
"Uggggggh," Chandler groaned.  
  
"All I'm saying is... Joey has fun... Megan has fun... and it calms Monica down. At least you're getting to hang out with Megan, right? Before, Monica was spitting nails whenever her name was mentioned. The way I see it, it's a win-win scenario."  
  
"Sure, I guess," Chandler mumbled into his beer.  
  
***  
  
"There," Monica said happily, smoothing the sheets and sticking the bag they came in into the trash. "*That's* better."  
  
Chandler came out of the bathroom coughing. "Jesus, Mon... how much Lysol did you spray on it?"  
  
"Just enough," Monica smiled, sliding into bed happily.  
  
"Couldn't we open the window or something?" Chandler said, still gagging on the antibacterial spray.  
  
"What? It'd get all damp again. Come to bed, honey."  
  
Chandler slid into bed, wincing. New, crunchy, cotton sheets. He laid down and practically heard the pillow crackle.  
  
"What'd you do with the old sheets?"  
  
"Threw them away," Monica sighed, cuddling up to him. "Mmm... this is nice."  
  
"Ohhhhhhhh," a loud moan intruded.  
  
Joey. He'd know that moan anywhere. "Hey Mon... I'm gonna close the door, okay?"  
  
"No, don't," Monica mumbled sleepily. "Gotta let the Lysol air out."  
  
Great. Another loud Joey-moan punctured his eardrums.  
  
"Hey, you wanna put the Enya on?" Chandler asked. "You love Enya..."  
  
"Not in the mood for music tonight..." She snuggled closer.  
  
She was doing this on purpose. She *wanted* him to lie here and listen to Joey and Megan have sex.  
  
"Look, Mon... don't you think we're a *little* close to the couch to be keeping the door open?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because of the *noise*."  
  
"I don't hear anything," Monica yawned. "But if there's a noise bothering you, we could always... drown it out..."  
  
Her hand strayed lower on his body, and Chandler's eyes popped open.  
  
"I do owe you a rain check," Monica whispered, moving her hand in persuasive ways.  
  
Well, it would certainly be distracting. And Ross was right -- Megan was a big girl... and definitely didn't *sound* like she was having a bad time.   
  
He captured Monica's lips with his, and she moaned -- way, way too loudly. He let his hand stray to her breast, and she did it again.   
  
Chandler's eyes narrowed even as Monica grinned wickedly and began kissing her way down his body, intent on beginning his Most Favorite Activity Ever... moaning the whole time.  
  
Not only did she want him to hear Megan... she was apparently hell-bent on Megan hearing *them*.  
  
Why didn't she just pee on him and mark her territory?  
  
This was sick; sick, sick and wrooooo-hooooo-hoooooooo...  
  
Damn, Monica was good at that.  
  
Chandler closed his eyes, struggling to keep his mind in proper husbandly channels... difficult, since Monica's chosen activity meant that he could hear Megan moaning even louder than Monica.  
  
You know what? Screw it. Monica had brought this particular twisted threesome fantasy on herself.  
  
Megan appeared in his mind, she and Monica flickering in scenes entirely inappropriate for children. Chandler's breathing grew shallower, more urgent... and he finally cried out, sinking back against the bed.  
  
"Liked that, did you?" Monica purred, moving back up to rest beside him.  
  
"Yeah, I... I did... I should... do something for you..."  
  
"Save it for tomorrow night," Monica smiled, snuggling in next to him. "Tonight was about you."  
  
Suuuuuure it was.  
  
Monica rolled over and went to sleep, a different kind of satisfaction sending her off into slumber. Chandler lay on his back and tucked his hands beneath his head, staring at the ceiling.  
  
What the hell. What the *hell*.  
  
At the end, he'd been thinking only of Megan. 


	7. Once In A Lifetime Thing

Well, we had the sex, now we have the really, really, really strong language. I'm just pushin' the rating limits all over the place. If you object to strong language, you might wanna skip to the second scene.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
2004  
  
"Chandler? Chandler, wake up."  
  
Chandler tried to sit up and nearly cracked heads with Joey, who'd been leaning down to whisper in his ear. The room was pitch-black... Monica was still asleep.  
  
"Joey... what time is it?" He rubbed his head. "What's going on?"  
  
"It's Megan, dude... I can't wake her up."  
  
Chandler climbed carefully out of bed, following Joey into the living room. "Whadda mean, you 'can't wake her up'?"  
  
"I don't know what's wrong with her, man."  
  
"Megan," Chandler whispered, shaking her shoulder. "Megan. C'mon, kiddo, wake up."  
  
He shook a little harder, and one arm slid out from underneath the blankets. Chandler's eyes shot to a little silver bracelet around her wrist... with a red caduceus on the front.  
  
Shit.   
  
He picked up her wrist and turned it over.  
  
"Joey, get me something sugary, right now. A soda or something, orange juice, anything."  
  
"You're thirsty?"  
  
"*Now,*" Chandler repeated fiercely.   
  
Joey scuttled to the fridge. Chandler slid his arm under Megan's shoulders and lifted her up, gesturing with his other hand impatiently. Joey ran back, opening a can as he ran, and slapped it into Chandler's palm. Chandler opened her mouth and poured in a tiny bit.  
  
"Megan? C'mon, open your eyes..." He regarded the can. "Joey, dammit, this is Diet Coke!"  
  
"Oh, shit..." Joey said, eyes opening wide. "She's diabetic?"  
  
"Yes! Help me get her up. No, no, just get her something else, I'll get her up."  
  
Joey ran back to the fridge. "All we *have* is Diet Coke!"  
  
Megan's eyes fluttered, then went still again.  
  
"No, no, c'mon," Chandler begged, pulling her into his lap and holding her up. "Don't go back to sleep, c'mon. Joey, look in her purse. See if she has any of those sugar pills..."  
  
"Where's her purse?"  
  
"Oh, screw it! See if we have any sugar packets! *Anything*!"  
  
Joey ran across the kitchen, and Chandler yanked Megan higher in his arms. "Dammit, Megan, dammit... why didn't you tell me..."  
  
"Just what the *hell* do you think you're doing?" Monica stood in the bedroom doorway, flames shooting out of her eyeballs.  
  
"Monica, not now! Find Megan's purse, find her car keys."  
  
"*Excuse* me?"  
  
"Find her purse! Find her keys!"  
  
"Do you want to *explain* what you're doing in your underwear with a naked girl?"  
  
"Okay," Joey cried, running into the room, hands full of little white packets. "Found some..."  
  
Chandler pried Megan's jaws open as Joey ripped a packet open and poured it carefully onto her tongue. Chandler closed her mouth, and a few seconds later, her eyes fluttered open.  
  
"More, give her another one," Chandler insisted, leaning Megan's head back for Joey. "Monica, did you not hear me? Find her purse!"  
  
"What is going on here?"  
  
"FIND HER FUCKING PURSE!! FUCKING FIND IT, FUCKING NOW!!"  
  
Monica stepped back, frozen in shock. He'd never talked to her that way. Ever.  
  
Joey poured more sugar into Megan's mouth, and her eyes opened.  
  
"Megan... it's Chandler... say something, okay?" Chandler whispered, stroking her hair.  
  
"I feel... weird. Did I... oh shit... so cold..."  
  
"We're gonna take you to the hospital. We've just gotta get some clothes on you, okay? Can you help me do that?"  
  
Joey picked Megan's shirt off the floor and handed it to Chandler, who fumbled with the straps, trying to get Megan's arms through them.   
  
"Meg? You gotta raise your arms up, okay? I can't get this damn thing on you."  
  
"I'm sorry... sorry..." she mumbled.  
  
"That's okay, that's okay," Chandler soothed, then snapped his head up to Monica. "Get her something else to wear, Mon. Something easier to put on. A dress or something, a big sweater, hell... a bathrobe."  
  
Monica stared at him like a deer in headlights.  
  
"Monica, move your fucking *ass*!" Chandler cried.  
  
"Here," Joey said nervously, picking up his own shirt and wrapping it around Megan's shoulders. "We'll get it on her better later... I'll go find the keys."  
  
Chandler stood up, hefting Megan into his arms. "Okay. Joe, get the blanket, too. See if there's any food stuff, ready to go stuff... I'll meet you out at Megan's car."  
  
***  
  
"J-joey?" Rachel mumbled, running her hand through her hair. "I heard a bunch of noise. What's going on?"  
  
Joey looked up from the coffeepot, unable to help breaking into a smile. He'd missed Rachel in the morning. "Just about everything. You want coffee?"  
  
"Hell, yeah. What was all the yelling about?"  
  
"Megan went into insulin shock. I tried to wake her up this morning, but I couldn't... we gave her some sugar."  
  
"Oh my god! Is she okay?"  
  
"I think she's gonna be. Chandler took her to the hospital, but she was already waking up when they left."  
  
"Did Monica go with him?"  
  
"No, she went for a walk. She's pretty pissed off."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Chandler kinda ended up yelling at her. Y'know, during the whole craziness. Don't think he's ever really done that before." Joey slid a mug of coffee towards Rachel.  
  
"Thanks," she sighed, taking a sip. "God, this is the most screwed-up trip. What the hell is *wrong* with those two?"  
  
The look of total depression on Joey's face made Rachel's stomach lurch. "Hey..." she said encouragingly. "What about you, though? Big hero guy? If you hadn't tried to wake her up, she could have gone into a coma. How cool are you?"  
  
Joey smiled a little. "Thanks, Rach."  
  
"C'mon, Monica and Chandler will work this out. They always do..."  
  
"It's not that. Well, it's sorta that. It's just... okay, look, if I tell you somethin', will you promise not to tell anyone else for a little while?"  
  
"I promise... Joey, what's going on?"  
  
"Well, I woke up this morning, and checked my messages. That's why I was trying to wake Megan up so early... to tell her..."  
  
"Tell her what?"  
  
"Estelle called. I got a job."  
  
"Honey, that's great!" She paused. "Wait. Why wouldn't you want me to tell people?"  
  
"It's a really great job," Joey continued. "Like, a once-in-a-lifetime kinda thing."  
  
"Joey, you're *killing* me here! What job did you get?"  
  
"They've cast me as Henry's little brother on 'Blood & Water'. Not as a guest star, either. Full-time cast member."  
  
"Oh my god!" Rachel squealed, spilling coffee all over herself. "You love that show! *Everyone* loves that show!"  
  
"Yeah, it's a great part. I've got this disease, I'm gonna hook up with Rebecca..."  
  
"You're gonna get to kiss *Rebecca*? *I* want to kiss *Rebecca*!"  
  
Joey laughed quietly. "Y'know, usually people say this to me, so this is gonna be new. Lemme see if I can do a good Chandler."   
  
Joey leaned over the counter, affecting Chandler's voice. "Waaaaaait for it...!"  
  
Rachel blinked, the smile sliding off her face. "It films in Los Angeles."  
  
"Bingo," Joey sighed.  
  
"Oh, Joey... you'd have to move away? Across the country?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Joey, you can't go! If we didn't go, you can't go!"  
  
"Whoa, whoa. 'If we didn't go?' Whaddya talking about?"  
  
Rachel blushed. "Yeah, I wasn't supposed to say anything."  
  
"Well, you gotta tell me now..."  
  
"Ross got offered a teaching position at Harvard."  
  
"Harvard? The college? Ross gets wood when he says that *word*!"  
  
Rachel laughed out loud. "Yeah, but he doesn't usually phrase it quite like that."  
  
"Or say it like that, right? He always puts those extra h's in it. Hahhhhhhvahhhhhhd..."  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"And he's not taking it?"  
  
"Well... we didn't want to leave everybody."  
  
Joey stared glumly at his coffee cup. "Well then... I gotta tell you somethin' else."  
  
"Phoebe and Mike are moving to Mars?"  
  
"Not... exactly..."  
  
Rachel gripped her coffee cup. "Oh for god's sake, Joey. Spill."  
  
"Well... you know how Mike's been writing piano accompaniments to Phoebe's songs, messin' around with that four-track of his?"  
  
"Yeah...?"  
  
"Well, he sent some tapes to Dr. Demento a few months ago. And they're gettin' good airplay."  
  
"Phoebe has..." Rachel swallowed. "Phoebe has *fans*?"  
  
"Yeah, I know! Anyway, they're still talkin' to people... but it looks like they *might* be opening for Weird Al Yankovic this summer. And if that works out, well..."  
  
"Joey, you are seriously not telling me..."  
  
"People *like* this stuff, Rach. I mean, look at Weird Al, look at They Might Be Gerbils."  
  
"Giants."  
  
"Whatever. Phoebe's stuff is *funny*, and Mike's been makin' it funnier. It's not like this hasn't almost happened before... she made that video of 'Smelly Cat'..."  
  
"Wow," Rachel sighed. "So basically, what you're telling me is that Mike, Phoebe, *and* you are leaving New York?"  
  
"Did Ross already turn Harvard down?"  
  
"No, he still has a week and a half to decide. He'd pretty much decided no, though."  
  
"Well, I mean, there are other reasons. Your job, for one..."  
  
Rachel looked down at her coffee cup. "Well. I told my boss at Ralph about the Harvard thing, and it turns out there's an opening at the flagship store in Boston. It'd actually be a little bit of a promotion. She said with New York experience, I'd be a shoo-in."  
  
"Well yeah... but Ben..."  
  
"Carol and Susan offered to let us have Ben in the summers. They were actually pretty excited about it... since Carol's off from school, and Susan wants to do some travel photography..."  
  
"We're all leavin', aren't we," Joey said flatly.  
  
"Well... I..." Rachel let out a little groan. "Ross and I, we didn't want to give you guys up. We're like... an institution, you know? The six of us, down at the coffeeshop. As long as we were down there with you guys... we didn't feel *old* yet, you know?"  
  
"Oh yeah... believe me... I know."  
  
"But now that we're both working and taking care of Emma... and Phoebe and Mike are together so much... and Chandler's writing all the time... it's like we're trying to hold on to something that doesn't... *exist* anymore."  
  
A tear fell down Joey's cheek. "Rach... I don't wanna go. I mean, you're right and all, things aren't like they used to be... but I don't want to give up even the little bit we have left. Why did everything have to *change*?"  
  
Rachel put her arms around him. "Honey... honey. You *have* to go. Like you said, this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing! You get on a super-popular show like that... there's no telling what it could lead to."  
  
Joey cried harder. Rachel squeezed him gently. "Joey... do you really think Phoebe and Mike will stay? When they have a chance to have a real music career, what they've both always dreamed of? They spent years massaging and lawyer-ing for a chance like this."  
  
She smoothed Joey's hair. "Honey... we will *always* be friends."  
  
"No we won't! You guys will get new, professor friends! And they'll get weird musician friends!"  
  
"Oh, c'mon, Joe," Rachel smiled sweetly. "Me? At Harvard? How bored am I gonna be? You'll probably get an unlisted number, so I quit bothering you night and day."  
  
"Yeah, right," Joey muttered... but he was smiling again.  
  
***  
  
Chandler looked up from his magazine to find Megan standing in front of him, blushing deeply and attempting to pull the hem of Joey's shirt lower than it wanted to be.  
  
"They said I could go."  
  
Chandler tossed the magazine aside, stood up, and grabbed Megan in a bear-hug.  
  
"Chandler... thank you... but you're making me flash the rest of the emergency room..."  
  
He let her go, and she squeezed his hand. "Thank you so much... I... well... now you've saved my life twice, you're like a superhero."  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
"I'm *starving*, actually... but we're not really dressed for restaurants, I guess..."  
  
Chandler pointed at his boxers and t-shirt with feigned indignance. "What's wrong with this...?"  
  
"Nothing," she laughed. "It's very stylish. My apologies."  
  
"C'mon," he grinned, taking her hand. "We're well-dressed enough for the drive-thru."  
  
"Look, Chandler. I'm so sorry... and so embarrassed... about this morning. I was so stupid... it was totally my fault."  
  
He held the front door open for her. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"Yes, it *was*. I'm not supposed to get drunk, I know better. Especially not like that." She covered her face with one hand. "I can't believe you saw me naked..."  
  
"Look, it wasn't like that. We were trying to wake you up, not check you out. I didn't even look."  
  
"You didn't?"  
  
"Didn't even notice if you're a real redhead or not," Chandler grinned slyly.  
  
"Well, I'm not."  
  
"I'll keep it in mind."  
  
"I believe you," Megan decided. "There's no way you could have looked and not mentioned the tattoo by now."  
  
"Tattoo?" Chandler said curiously. "A tattoo... where?"  
  
Megan burst into laughter and ran for the car.  
  
***  
  
"Okay, now take a left," Megan declared, pointing one greasy finger towards Chandler before ripping back into her chicken.  
  
"Oh my god," Chandler breathed, parking the car. "This is incredible."  
  
"Mrph," Megan said around a mouthful of food.  
  
They had parked a foot from the end of a precipice, jutting out over a pool... fed by a fifteen-foot waterfall.  
  
Chandler pulled a piece of chicken from the bucket on Megan's lap. "This is freakin' amazing."  
  
Megan swallowed. "I love it here. Could you hand me a biscuit?"  
  
"Damn, woman," Chandler laughed.  
  
"Oh yeah, I know," Megan grinned, ripping off a piece of biscuit happily. "Don't worry, the feeding frenzy will end in a few minutes."  
  
"Hell, rub the chicken on your face, I don't care... I was so worried about you. Besides, that's how Joey eats it."  
  
"I'm sorry I scared you, Chandler. And I hate that you spent part of your vacation in the ER."  
  
"Hey -- I got to read magazines, nobody bothered me, nobody wanted to show me paint chips -- it pretty much rocked the metaphorical Casbah."  
  
Megan dug in the bag for a napkin. "Paint chips?"   
  
"Monica wants to remodel the house."  
  
"Well, that's good..." Megan replied. "You were hoping she'd like it down here."  
  
"Yeah, I was just hoping she'd like it the way it *was*, y'know? We spent most of yesterday shopping for new crap that I hate."  
  
"Did you tell her that you hated it?"  
  
"Oh, are you kidding? I like my testicles just fine in their present location, thanks very much."  
  
"Well, she's not *psychic*, Chandler. How's she supposed to know if you don't tell her?"  
  
"She's not. That's the point."  
  
"I'm confused."  
  
"Monica's... sort of a force of nature when it comes to planning stuff. Once she gets her teeth into something, you pretty much get out of her way."  
  
"Aw, c'mon."  
  
"No, seriously. She turns into 'Martha Stewart From The Black Lagoon'. Like our wedding, right? I mean besides the fact that I got to pick out, pretty much nothing... do you know what song I had to walk down the aisle to?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"'Groovy Kind of Love'. Which was my ex-girlfriend *Janice's* favorite song. Y'know, I'm trying to walk, thinking husbandly thoughts, trying not to stare at dad's cleavage... y'know, The Standard Groom Issues... and all I can hear is..."  
  
Chandler performed the title line, Janice-style. Megan winced painfully.  
  
"Okay, but imagine me trapped in a very small shower with no chance for escape. And leopard-print towels. And I *told* Monica that, you know, but she had this 'greater vision' that couldn't be tampered with."  
  
"What'd you *want* to walk down the aisle to?"  
  
Chandler blushed. "The Imperial March from Star Wars."  
  
"That would have been *bitchin'*!" Megan cried.  
  
"You seriously think so?"  
  
"Hell, yeah! Oh, wow... the look on the guests' faces... if I ever get married, can I steal your idea?"   
  
"Well, sure... I guess. You'd actually process in to 'The Imperial March'?"  
  
"Definitely. Do you have *any* idea how many weddings I've sat through? Bored off my ass in a pew, reading the program like it's over gonna have a plot, watching them light the 'unity candle', listening to the same songs over and over and over? My wedding's going to be so different. I want everyone to leave, turn to the person they came with, and say 'Damn. *That* was fun.'"  
  
"Well, our wedding definitely wasn't *boring*. You should have been there -- Joey was the minister."  
  
"Yeah," Megan sighed, looking out the window. "Joey."  
  
"You guys have fun last night?" Chandler asked carefully.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," Megan lit a cigarette, avoiding Chandler's gaze.  
  
"Okay, that's obnoxious, look at me and talk. Also, gimme one of those."  
  
Megan passed him the pack. "I'm just embarrassed...! You introduce me to your friends, and blammo! I sleep with one of them. Not even on the first date... on the sixth beer. It's not my proudest moment, okay? Although it *is* in the running for the weirdest."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"You're not a quiet man, Mr. Bing."  
  
He paused with his hand cupped over lighter flame. "Ah. You heard."  
  
"Heard? It was like doin' it in stereo."  
  
"Yeah, well, you're not exactly stealthy yourself." He passed her pack back. "So did you not have a good time last night?"  
  
"No, I had a good time. It's just... I mean, you've *told* me about Joey. It's not like the beginning of a beautiful relationship, right? Especially since you guys are going back to New York tomorrow."  
  
Megan scratched her knee. "Does your wife at least hate me less now?"  
  
Chandler froze. "Megan... please, *please* tell me that you did not have sex with Joey because of *Monica*."  
  
"I didn't! I didn't, I swear."  
  
He glared at her, eyes narrowed.  
  
"Seriously! I didn't!"  
  
They sat looking at each other, tension building.  
  
"So where's your tattoo?" Chandler asked innocently, taking a drag.  
  
"Nice try," she laughed. "A girl's gotta have some mysteries."  
  
"Did *Joey* see your tattoo?"  
  
"I would say definitely."  
  
Chandler put on an impressive pout. "See, that's just not fair. Joey gets to see it, and you won't even tell me where it is."  
  
"Well, if you'd spend a *little* less time bringing me back to consciousness and a *little* more time ogling me, you'd know!"  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Chandler grinned.  
  
"See that you do," Megan replied with mock gravity, then smiled. "Anyway, he won't be seeing it *again*. I have a problem with guys who call me 'Rachel' in the heat of passion."  
  
"Oh, no."  
  
"Oh, yeah!"  
  
"Oh, god," Chandler groaned.  
  
"What?"  
  
"He's still not over that."  
  
"Over what?"  
  
"Oh... he and Rachel hooked up about a year ago. It's not like it sounds... he'd been in love with her for like a year. Ross was... it's a long story. Anyway, there was this *huge* fight. Ross and Rachel go *way* back."  
  
"As far as us?"  
  
"Not quite... although interestingly, a Princess Leia costume was also involved."  
  
"Uh-huh," Megan laughed. "Stop right now, I have incoming mental pictures."  
  
"Anyway... Joey got his heart broken, again. And now he has to watch Rachel and Ross together all the time."  
  
"Poor guy," Megan sighed. "I've been there, that blows."  
  
"Yeah, it really did."  
  
"Damn, your... your friends are really inbred, huh? I thought mine were bad. Have *any* of you not fooled around with each other?"  
  
"Ahhhh..." Chandler scratched his nose. "Depends on your definition of 'fool around'... I think I've kissed almost everyone."  
  
"Joey and Ross?"  
  
"Let's just say I'm... friendly when I'm drunk."  
  
"Yeah," Megan said darkly. "Apparently, so am I."  
  
"Anyway, I think we've learned our lesson, now. I know I have. No desire to go back into that box."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh, it was a while ago. Joey was dating this girl named Kathy, and I ended up kissing her."  
  
"Bad Chandler!" Megan cried, hitting him lightly on the arm.  
  
"Oh, I know, god, I know. Anyway, to prove I was sorry, I had to spent Thanksgiving inside a packing crate."  
  
"Oh my god."  
  
"Yeah. She ended up cheating on me anyway. Karma, I guess. Anyway, after that, I had strict policy... if Joey's touched it, Chandler doesn't."  
  
Megan went a little pale, and Chandler realized his faux pas. "Hey, hey, for the friendship thing. That's why. Not like you're damaged goo... hey, I'm gonna stop talking now!"  
  
Megan smiled awkwardly. "Oh no, I was just hoping the rest of the world didn't have the same policy."  
  
"C'mon, you're great. You'll find someone who doesn't call you 'Rachel'."  
  
Megan changed the subject. "So did you have a nice vacation?"  
  
"It was okay," Chandler said. "Although honestly, and don't take this the wrong way... since you almost died and all... this morning's been the best part."  
  
"Damn. Ancient magazines, machine coffee and greasy chicken? You're not saying much about the rest of the trip."  
  
"Well... I just don't think I want to do this again. Y'know, the whole everyone-come-down-here thing."  
  
"Too many friends, not enough wife?" Megan guessed.  
  
"Actually," Chandler sighed, grinding out his cigarette, "Pretty much the opposite."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Well, it's... I mean, it's really sad. Back in the day, when it was just the six of us... I was closer to Mon than almost anyone. Except for Joey, I guess. And now... it's like I get along with anyone better than her... even Emma. At least the stuff Emma throws at my head is *soft*."  
  
"I thought you guys were better," Megan said sadly.  
  
"We are, I guess... in a bad way, if that makes any sense. We're fighting less, that's true. But it's mostly 'cause I give in on everything."  
  
"Well..."  
  
"But that's the only way it really works, y'know? It's kind of the way it's always worked. The thing is, Megan, you didn't know me a few years ago. I just... really didn't give a damn about anything."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"I hated my job... I mean, *despised* it. I had no dreams. I thought I had no talent. I'd just sort of let everything burn out, y'know? I cared about my friends and that was about it. I was rotten with women, screwed up every serious relationship. You know what Pheebs told me once?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"She said that I had a big cloud of doom over my head. And that no matter how many jokes I made, how silly I acted, everyone always saw this cloud of doom. I was like that cartoon, you know, where the raincloud follows the guy around?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"Monica's always been different. She's competitive, she's ambitious, she knows exactly what she wants, what she likes, she works for it, she's totally driven. Basically the opposite of me. And when what she wanted was me... oh my god, was *that* flattering."  
  
"I can see that..."  
  
"And it was *okay* that she was so opinionated, because I didn't really have opinions... and the ones I did have were snivelly little weak ones that barely made a 'pfft' sound when she rolled over them. So we got along great. She gave me direction... I gave her no resistance."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"And now, for the first time in a long time, I *care* about stuff. I care about my books, about the house, about getting to talk to you... and I care about all this other crap that I never would have given a damn about before... like what color the walls are." He paused. "Can I have another cigarette?"  
  
"Take the pack, I have a carton in the back." She leaned over the back of the passenger seat for them.  
  
Okay, so the tattoo's obviously not on her butt. Chandler decided to examine Megan's steering wheel very closely.  
  
"Thanks," he continued, still keeping his eyes averted until she dropped back into the seat. "Anyway, it's just... it's all such stupid stuff, mostly. But I find myself getting angry about it anyway. And I never got angry about it before. I don't understand..."  
  
Chandler sighed. "Or maybe I do. It's like, before... I thought I was worthless, and Monica was so awesome. When it was her versus me on any topic, I honestly believed that her opinion was better than mine, you know? And now I feel a lot better about myself... not only am I starting to respect my own opinions, but I'm starting to see flaws in Monica. Stuff that never bothered me before, or that I thought was cute, or whatever."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Megan said quietly.  
  
"Hell if I know. I love her, oh my god, so much... so much it physically *hurts* me sometimes. But she's driving me up the wall."  
  
"Does she *know* she's driving you up the wall?"  
  
"Maybe. I can't tell. She kinda gets tunnel vision sometimes. She can be so empathetic, but then when the empathy's in her way... she can kind of shove it aside. Sometimes, she's *really* selfish... but then other times, she's the sweetest person in the world. Can you tell I haven't made up my mind?"  
  
"Chandler... we should probably get back. It's almost noon."  
  
"You want to come home with me?"  
  
"No... I appreciate it, but... my mom's worried, I need to take my medicine, I wanna shower, I'd like to have on some underwear, la la la. Could you take me to Mom's?"  
  
Chandler nodded, putting the car into reverse. Two fat drops of rain fell on the windshield.  
  
"Raining again," he smiled, backing the car up. "There goes Joey's hole."  
  
***  
  
"Look, just take the car," Megan said, raising her voice to be heard over the thunderstorm. "It's too far to walk in this."  
  
She popped the passenger door and scrambled out into the rain, instantly soaked, her bare feet in two inches of puddle.  
  
Dear God. Why did Joey's button-down have to be *white*?  
  
Megan leaned in for her purse, and Chandler ruled out her breasts as another possible tattoo location.  
  
"Are you gonna be okay?" Chandler yelled.  
  
Megan gave him a thumbs-up and sprinted towards her house. Delores had already opened the front door and was motioning her inside.  
  
Chandler waved to them and drove away.  
  
***  
  
Chandler pushed the front door open, shaking water from his hair. The living room was strangely empty.  
  
"Hello?" he called. "You guys?"  
  
"Hey," Monica said, stepping into the living room.  
  
"Hey, Mon. Where's everybody?"  
  
"They got a cab and went to town. You were gone a really long time."  
  
"Sorry," Chandler sighed, tossing Megan's keys onto the counter. "The hospital took a while."  
  
"Is she... is she okay?" Monica asked carefully.  
  
"She's fine now, I dropped her off at her mom's house."  
  
"Look, Chandler... I stayed behind because I wanted to talk."  
  
Ah, here we go. Her apology for this morning. He smiled encouragingly.  
  
Monica crossed her arms. "I wanted to give you the chance to apologize."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Chandler, do you even *remember* how you spoke to me this morning? Or I should say, *screamed* and *cursed* at me?"  
  
She waited for him to respond, then continued. "Well, *I* remember. And I didn't appreciate it. You will never, *never* talk to me like that again... do you understand?"  
  
"Monica... Megan could have gone into a *coma*. I was a *little* stressed out!"  
  
"Well, I'm sorry you were stressed," Monica said primly. "But that's *no* excuse for talking to me like that. I was simply trying to figure out what was going on, and you *attacked* me."  
  
Chandler gripped the counter until his knuckles turned white. "Mon... you weren't 'simply trying to figure out what was going on'. You were accusing me of *cheating* on you by giving someone friggin' *First Aid*."  
  
"Don't," Monica warned, raising her finger.  
  
"Oh for god's sake, Monica, you're not my *mother*. I'm allowed to curse in the house!"  
  
"What is *with* you?" Monica cried. "Why have you been so bitchy lately?"  
  
"Me?" Chandler screeched. "This from the High Queen of All That Is Bitchery?"  
  
"I am *not*! I'm not the one who's changed here, Chandler! *You* have!"  
  
"You have *too* changed, Monica! You used to be more than the sum total of your neuroses!"  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"It's true! Ever since we started trying for a baby, you have been more and more... consumed by your quirks! You're one big quirk! Do I seriously have to knock you up to calm you down?"  
  
"You know what? You can't! You *can't* knock me up, okay? So get used to it!"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Remember those tests we took? Well, the doctor called with your results before we left New York, okay?"  
  
Chandler paled. "What... why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Because I didn't want to ruin this *stupid* vacation that you were all excited about!"  
  
"What did the doctor say?"  
  
"You have 'low motility', Chandler."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?"  
  
"You're firing the gun, but no bullets are coming out!"  
  
"We can't have kids because of... me?"  
  
"Pretty much!"  
  
A spasm of guilt ripped through Chandler... then was quickly drowned by a wave of suspicion.  
  
"Wait a damn minute," Chandler said quietly. "*That's* why you're acting like this, isn't it?"  
  
"Well yeah, I'm pretty upset!"  
  
"Screw 'upset'," Chandler cried. "You're trying to get rid of me!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh my god! That's what you're doing! You're deliberately trying to piss me off in every possible way so that I'll leave you and you'll be free to find better sperm!"  
  
"I'm not *trying* to piss you off, Chandler! What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Don't *even*. I *know* you. Richard said he didn't want to have kids, and bam! You dumped him. Never mind that the man was *perfect* for you, never mind that you'd never been that happy in your whole damned life... bam! You dumped him on his ass. Then you're with me, and you think *I* don't want kids... but suddenly, suddenly, Richard does... and bam! You're leaving me and running to Richard... but whoa, whoa, wait, it was a joke, I do want kids... and bam! You're back with me!"  
  
"Who are you, Emeril?" Monica screeched.  
  
"Jesus, Monica, why don't you cut out the middleman and get a damn turkey baster? Or just sleep with Joey, like you wanted to in the first place? I'm sure his gun is just *full* of bullets! And nothin' pulls his trigger like another friggin' round of *Enya*!"  
  
"You are not even making sense now!"  
  
"Maybe if you'd quit soaking the bed in *Lysol*, I wouldn't be *sterile*?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? How did we go from you, cursing at me, to... to antibacterial *spray*? It's like I'm not even *in* this fight!"  
  
"You know what? I don't *wanna* paint the kitchen purple! And you know what, Ms. Fancy Chef Who Ought To Know Better? Aubergine and Eggplant are the same damned vegetable! Neither of which this kitchen should be, because I like it the way it friggin' is!"  
  
Monica burst into tears and sat down at the kitchen table.  
  
"Oh, yeah, Monica's *crying* now," Chandler muttered, trying to shove down the guilt. "Look what Chandler did. Chandler's such a mean guy. If Chandler doesn't start agreeing *now*, Chandler's a real asshole!"  
  
"Will you shut the hell up," Monica sobbed. "I don't give a damn about the kitchen. I was just trying to *participate* in this stupid *shack* you're so obsessed with!"   
  
"By changing everything?"  
  
"Chandler... damn it... I'm a chef! And maybe I forgot that 'aubergine' was another word for 'eggplant' and not a color, right, but I'm still a chef. And I can't *cook* in this kitchen, okay? The stove barely works, it won't hold temperature, the cabinets are too small for any of our dishes, and the damned refrigerator doesn't even make ice. I was trying to make this a place that *I* could be happy in, too! I thought the point was for us to be happy here *together*!"  
  
"By changing everything about it that I like!" Chandler protested weakly, anger already ebbing.  
  
"I didn't know! I thought I knew you! Since when have you given a crap about cabinets? I thought you *liked* our apartment, and *it's* purple!"  
  
"That... that still doesn't explain why you've been such a bitch to Megan..."  
  
"Oh my god, Chandler! Could you please, *please* try to see this from my point of view? What if I took off for a week and ended up staying with some guy who looked like... like... Antonio Banderas? Who made me laugh when you couldn't, who I wanted to talk on the phone with twice a day, who I let stay in our apartment when we weren't there?"  
  
Monica flung tears from her eyes. "You haven't exactly made it easy for me, Chandler! I mean, you even have cute little pet names for each other! How would you like it if 'Antonio' and I called each other 'Romeo and Juliet'...? You'd freak! And then if you walked in on us, me in my underwear, him completely naked... would you seriously have the presence of mind to stop, step back, and say 'Golly, I wonder if he's in insulin shock?' You wouldn't and you know it!"  
  
Chandler sagged into the other kitchen chair. "God, Monica... when did we get so screwed up?"  
  
"You want the honest answer, or the one you want to hear?"  
  
"The honest one," he sighed.  
  
"When you started writing. That's *the day*, Chandler."  
  
"What do you want me to do? Just stop writing?"  
  
"Honestly? Yes. But I can't ask you to do that."  
  
"If you knew how much it meant to me..."  
  
"I think I do, Chandler. That's why I can't ask. I just wish... I meant that much to you."  
  
"You do, Monica, I swear to God. You do."  
  
"Then why are you doing this to me, Chandler? Why are you flaunting this girl in my face?"  
  
"I'm not... flaunting..." Chandler said weakly.  
  
"I can't ask you not to write. But can I at *least* ask you for that? We're *married*, Chandler. I want... no, I *deserve*... to be the most important woman in your life." She held up her ring finger, pressing her thumb against the band there. "That's what this *means*."  
  
"I just *talk* to her," Chandler sighed.  
  
"So talk to me," Monica begged, reaching across the table and taking his hand. "That's what's *wrong* with us, Chandler. We're talking to other people and not to each other."  
  
"So you want me to... what... just not talk to Megan anymore?"  
  
"I'm not saying you should *never* talk to her," Monica soothed. "Just talk to her a normal amount. A few times a year."  
  
"Do you think that would really make things better?"  
  
"It would make me a lot happier, Chandler."  
  
Chandler entwined his fingers with hers. "Okay."  
  
"Seriously?" Monica's face lit up. "You will?"  
  
"I'll do it," Chandler said, forcing his lips into a smile.  
  
"Oh, *honey*," Monica cried, jumping up and throwing her arms around him. "You won't regret this, you won't."  
  
I already am, Chandler thought sadly. 


	8. Mint Treasures

2004  
  
Megan set her bag down on the counter, closing the door behind her and looking around with a rueful smile.  
  
"Won't be needing these for a while," she said aloud, sticking the cleaning products she'd bought underneath the kitchen sink.  
  
Monica might hate her guts, but she definitely didn't leave a mess behind.  
  
There was an envelope on the counter with her name on it. Megan crossed to it and withdrew a sheet of paper. Chandler's trademark scrawl was all over it.  
  
"Dear Megan," she read.  
  
"I feel like you probably saw this coming, but... Monica doesn't really want me to talk to you for a while. I think you know how badly I want to make my marriage work, so I hope you'll understand why I'm doing this."  
  
Megan sighed. She did understand.  
  
"I seriously doubt that Monica and I will ever come down here again, but I refuse to sell the place. I really want you to move back in. In fact, I pretty much demand that you move back in. Before you ask, yes, Monica is okay with this... it's part of our agreement."  
  
"To blackmail you into this, I have arranged for a package to be delivered during your normal caretaking hours. The contents of this package are extremely delicate and will require that you reside in the house to provide care. The contents of this package are very dear to both Joey and myself, but we trust you."  
  
"I miss you already."  
  
"Chandler."  
  
"P.S. Where's your damn tattoo?"  
  
Megan burst into laughter, setting the letter down. Package? What the hell kind of package?  
  
Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Megan opened it to find the mailman.  
  
"I have a delivery for Megan Mitchell?"  
  
"That's me."  
  
"Sign here, please."  
  
"Where's the package?"  
  
"It's in the truck. Didn't want to move it until I knew you were home."  
  
"What's... what's in it?"  
  
The mailman struggled to keep a straight face.  
  
"Ma'am... as near as I can tell..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's a rooster. And a duck."  
  
***  
  
"Who loves ya, baby?" Chandler called, striding through the door flamboyantly.  
  
"Uh-oh," Monica laughed, looking up from her magazine. "What have you done?"  
  
Chandler reached into his trenchcoat and procured a box, which he sat on the table in front of Monica.  
  
"Mint Treasures!" she screeched in delight.  
  
"Yup... I love you, 'cause I bought ya a box. And I love you *more*, 'cause I only bought you *one*."  
  
"Very wise," Monica grinned, kissing him on the cheek and walking to the couch. "Now I have something to munch during 'American Idol'."  
  
Chandler swallowed a sigh. "Is that the schedule for tonight?"  
  
"Are you kidding? It's Jessica vs. Nathan tonight! I wouldn't miss this!"  
  
"You want me to make some dinner?" Chandler asked.  
  
"No way! I need room for cookies. Could you hand me my drink?"  
  
Chandler passed her the glass of scotch before shrugging off his coat. Another night of TV. Fantastic. Swell. More 'quality time' between him, Monica, and Paula Abdul... every husband's dream.  
  
Chandler turned sharply at a loud noise from across the hall. "What are they doing now?"  
  
"They've been fighting all day," Monica said around a mouthful of minty chocolate. "I think they've even involved the dog."  
  
Sure enough, frantic barking followed the raised voices.  
  
Chandler dropped into the armchair with a sigh. "Would you think less of me if I told you that I hope our new neighbors rot in hell?"  
  
"At least we can't *see* them," Monica laughed, pointing out the window. Once Ross and Rachel had given up the sublet, Ugly Naked Guy had moved back in... now, with the new addition of Ugly Naked Girlfriend. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't so into Ugly Naked Sex Against The Window.  
  
"Never thought I'd miss watching Ross read in his T-Rex boxers," Chandler sighed.  
  
"Sssh, honey... the show's starting."  
  
Chandler tried to get interested in the program, but it just wasn't happening. He stood up. "Hon, would you mind if I did a little editing? Since you're busy with your show..."  
  
"Awww, hang out with me," Monica cooed, taking his hand and pulling him down to the couch. She snuggled up against him.  
  
And now he was trapped. Trapped with Simon Cowell. Perfection.  
  
This was their life since the other five had left: reality shows. Cooking shows. Court TV. Made-for-television movies. All four flavors of 'CSI'. In the weeks since Phoebe and Mike had packed up, Monica had gone from someone who barely turned the television on to someone who seemed totally hypnotized by it.  
  
This was why grown-ups had kids. Because they'd run out of everything else to do.  
  
What he wouldn't give to be sitting at Central Perk, listening to the details of Joey's latest conquest, or Phoebe's weirdest adventure, or Rachel's newest piece of gossip. Hell, he'd even be up for one of Ross' dinosaur lectures.  
  
He missed them. God, he missed them. He hadn't felt so alone in years. There was Monica, but... Monica was one-sixth of what he needed.  
  
"One-seventh," a voice in the back of his mind whispered.  
  
He wasn't even going to think about Megan. The other six were bad enough.  
  
And it had all ended with such a whimper. He'd always thought that if the six of them ever broke up, it would be some big, dramatic thing, but...  
  
Joey had left first: he had to be on set. He'd flown out the day after they'd gotten back from Georgia. The rest of them had packed and shipped his things in a wine-soaked party of bittersweet nostalgia.  
  
Ross, Rachel, and Emma next, leaving a depressing, blank darkness whenever Chandler looked out the big window. Then Phoebe and Mike, two months ago.  
  
Chandler had always loved autumn, but this one, he'd been fighting... watching the leaves fall, watching things go dark and dead, dried-out and finished. He'd never thought of autumn as lonely, never realized how surrounded by death it was.  
  
And why would he? There's been leaf-fights with Joey in the park, and football to pretend to watch, and parades, and Thanksgiving... a holiday that he would never admit he'd secretly come to love again. The six (or seven) of them, sitting around a table, laughing and fighting and being their ridiculous selves...  
  
Chandler swallowed a lump in his throat and shifted under the weight of Monica's head.  
  
"Hey Mon? I'm getting up for some water, okay?"  
  
"Would you refresh me?" she smiled, handing him her glass.  
  
And since when did Monica drink at night? She'd read that article on alcohol lowering the risk of heart attacks, but dear god -- surely they weren't talking about Scotch!  
  
"You got some mail," Monica called. "I think it's junk, but I wasn't sure."  
  
He crossed to the mail holder, retrieving the envelope inside. Another credit card application -- junk.  
  
He had almost tossed it in the trash when he noticed that it was unusually stiff... and taped closed, with a printed label over the original address.  
  
What the hell?  
  
He pulled off the tape, and a a black and white photograph fell into his hand.  
  
Chandler couldn't hold in his grin. The picture had been taken on the back deck of the house. In it, the rooster perched on the edge of the railing... looking curiously down at the duck, who was paddling blissfully in the river.  
  
"Hell of a lot better than the bathtub, huh buddy?" Chandler whispered.  
  
"What'd you say, sweetie?" Monica called.  
  
"Nothing... it's junk," Chandler replied, slipping the picture into his back pocket and throwing the envelope away.  
  
His cellphone began to ring, and Chandler looked at the display. "Joseph Tribbiani."  
  
"Mon, it's Joe. I'm gonna take this in the other room, okay?"  
  
Monica mumbled something that sounded like assent, mouth full of cookie.  
  
Chandler closed his study door behind him. "Hey, Joe."  
  
"Hey, man! I got your printout of your book!"  
  
"You read it?"  
  
"Guess where it is?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's in my *freezer*!"  
  
Chandler pumped his fist into the air. "Scared you that bad?"  
  
"Dude, it's awesome! It's been in the freezer like, three times, but then I have to keep gettin' it out to find out what happens next!"  
  
Chandler sat down on the bed, happiness coursing through him. "That's the best compliment anyone's ever given me, Joe."  
  
"It gets better! I called Rachel, right, to see if she could tell me what happened at the end so I wouldn't have to read it... and she couldn't tell me, 'cause *her* copy's in *her* freezer!"  
  
"Oh my god!" Chandler nearly shrieked in joy. "Rachel too?"  
  
"And get this... get this... *Ross* put it there!"  
  
"Ross? Science Man?"  
  
"Dude, it's seriously, seriously awesome. I took 'The Shining' out to put your book *in*."  
  
"I'm literally floating right now," Chandler grinned.   
  
"I just thought you'd wanna know," Joey replied.  
  
"So how are you? How's L.A.?"  
  
Joey's enthusiasm dropped a notch. "It's okay. I like the show, the cast is cool. But I miss you guys."  
  
"God, Joe... I miss you too. You have no idea." Chandler sat down and shifted the phone to his other ear. "Look... I'm gonna have to go on a book tour here in a few months. I know I'll be going to L.A... I'm gonna see if we can extend that part so I can hang out with you."  
  
"Cool! Is Monica coming with you?"  
  
"Not this time, she's swamped at the restaurant."  
  
"You heard from Megan at all?"  
  
"Nope. She sent me a picture of the chick and the duck, though. Looks like they're having fun."  
  
"Awesome. Hey, Chandler, I have to go... my pizza's here."  
  
"The Joey Special?"  
  
"You know it, man."  
  
Chandler hung up glumly. He'd ordered 'The Joey Special' himself a few times, after Joey was gone.  
  
But they'd gotten the name right: without Joey, it wasn't special.  
  
***  
  
"Yeah, you start off with three days in L.A.," Neil said. "I figured I'd have to pull teeth to get you to do this tour at all, Chandler."  
  
Chandler wedged the phone against his shoulder, piling turkey on his sandwich. "Well, I'm actually looking forward to it. I'm doing Boston, too?"  
  
"Of course you're doing Boston, Chandler. What, you thought we'd have you skip all the major cities and go on a tour of rural pig farms?"  
  
Chandler grinned. His new agent was a hell of an improvement.  
  
"Neil, can you hang on for a second? The call waiting just went off."  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
Chandler pressed the flash button on the phone. "Hello?"  
  
"Hi, may I speak to Monica Bing, please?"  
  
"She's not here right now."  
  
"Ah... is this her husband?"  
  
"Yes it is..."  
  
"Mr. Bing, can you remind your wife that her ultrasound has been moved to Thursday? We notified her in writing, but she didn't call to confirm."  
  
"Um... ultrasound?"  
  
"Yes, sir. This Thursday, ten a.m."  
  
Click. Chandler switched back over to Neil. "Hey... I'm back..."  
  
"You okay? Your voice sounds weird."  
  
"I'm... Neil, I think my wife is pregnant."  
  
"Congratulations, man!"  
  
"Yeah, I need to go, okay?"  
  
"Okay... congratulations, daddy!"  
  
"Thanks, Neil."  
  
Chandler hung up the phone in a daze, abandoning it on the counter next to his half-constructed sandwich and collapsing into the armchair.  
  
Pregnant?  
  
But... his gun, with the bullet lackage...  
  
And why hadn't Monica told him?  
  
Maybe... maybe she hadn't wanted to get his hopes up until she knew for sure. Maybe she... but if she already had an ultrasound scheduled, wouldn't she already know for sure?  
  
There was no reason for her not to tell him.  
  
Unless.  
  
Unless, of course, it wasn't his.  
  
***  
  
"Hey, honey!" Monica called, hanging up her coat and purse. "You would not believe the day I had!"   
  
She looked around the living room. Empty. "Chandler?"  
  
"I was taking a nap," he said, leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom.  
  
"Do you feel okay?"  
  
"Not really. I feel pretty *nauseous*."  
  
"Oh, honey! Do you want me to get you something from the drugstore?"  
  
Yeah, about five pregnancy tests. "Nah."  
  
"You going back to bed?"   
  
"I think so." he turned back towards the bedroom, then spun casually. "Hey, Mon... I almost forgot...! Your doctor called. Your ultrasound's been moved to Thursday."  
  
The color faded from Monica's face. "What?"  
  
"Your... ult-ra-sound... has been mo-oved... to Thurs-day," Chandler said exaggeratedly, deliberately misunderstanding.  
  
"Chandler..."  
  
"So," he spat, "Am I still firing blanks? Or do you have something to tell me?"  
  
"Oh, god, Chandler," Monica sighed sadly.  
  
"Well, I guess that answers *my* question," Chandler snapped. "Who is he?"  
  
"Who... what?"  
  
"The father of your baby, Monica, who is he?"  
  
"Chandler... I'm not pregnant."  
  
"Then why in the *hell* are you having an ultrasound?"  
  
"It's not that kind of ultrasound!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"They're not looking at a baby, Chandler. It's to look at my ovarian cysts."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Look. When we got back from Georgia, they called with *my* results. And I have this... syndrome, okay? I can't have kids. Ever."  
  
"You're not pregnant."  
  
"No."  
  
"But you were going to... you were going to let me spend our whole marriage thinking that it was all my fault we couldn't have kids?"  
  
"I was embarrassed!" Monica cried. "I'd yelled at you, and blamed you, and..."  
  
"And you didn't want to be *wrong*," Chandler finished coldly.  
  
"I was going to tell you!"  
  
"When, Monica? When? This year? Five years? Do you have any idea how god-awful I've felt about this? How much I blamed myself, wondered what I did, how many nights I worried myself *sick* that you were going to leave me for someone who could give you a child?"  
  
"Chandler... I..."  
  
"Dammit, Monica... you were the one! You were the one saying how we needed to talk to each other! You call this talking? This is a pretty freakin' major secret to be keeping from me!"  
  
"Honey..."  
  
"Monica..." Chandler groaned, running his fingers through his hair, "I seriously, seriously don't know how much more of this shit I can put up with."  
  
"What... what do you mean?"  
  
"Do you have any... *any* idea... how irrational, how *crazy* you act sometimes? Could you step back for one second, one measly second, and take a look at yourself?"  
  
"Chandler, please don't be mad..."  
  
"Mon... I'm not mad. I'm just tired. I love you, but... I'm really, really tired of living like this."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"I don't *either*, Monica. I don't understand why you freak out if I put the sofa pillows in the wrong order. I don't understand why you're so obsessed with 'winning' everything that you hurt yourself, or me. I don't understand why a stain on the rug can make you lose sleep, or why you'd rather *lie* to me and make me feel bad than just admit you made a mistake. I try to understand, but I don't, and I never will."  
  
"Chandler... I can't change who I am... you knew what I was like when you married me!"  
  
"I thought... I thought I could handle it, or that you'd calm down, or something. But you're getting worse, and worse, and worse."  
  
He walked towards her and sat down. "Mon... do you have any idea how I felt today, when I got that phone call? If you'd been honest with me, it never would have happened."  
  
"Chandler... it's not like you're the world's easiest person to live with, either!"  
  
"Mon... I know that. I do. I think... I think we should start seeing a therapist."  
  
"Chandler, no..."  
  
"Seriously, Monica. Think for a second. Why'd you yell at me yesterday?"  
  
"You moved the phone pen. For like, the millionth time, though!"  
  
"Monica... it's a *pen*. There are men who cheat on their wives, beat their wives, never come home... and I'm getting yelled at over *pen placement*."  
  
"We don't need *therapy*, Chandler. We're just adjusting to each other! That takes time!"  
  
"Monica, we've been married for over *three years*. That should have happened by now!"  
  
"But..."  
  
"Look, Mon. I'm leaving for my tour tomorrow. I think maybe we should take that time to think."  
  
"Are you saying we should... take a break?"  
  
"Hell no," Chandler laughed. "I know better than to say that to a Geller."  
  
Monica froze, and Chandler touched her hand. "Sorry, Mon. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."  
  
"How'd you mean it?" she said icily.  
  
"Okay, fine, a break. Or whatever. Just some time to think. And when I come back, we'll see how we feel."  
  
"Do you... do you want a divorce?"  
  
"No, Monica, I don't. I definitely don't. I just want things to be different. I love you."  
  
"I love you too..."  
  
"See?" he said gently. "That's what matters. We'll figure something out."  
  
"Chandler?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"On your book tour... are you going South?"  
  
"I'm going to Atlanta..." he blinked in comprehension. "Oh god, Monica, not this again... I haven't talked to her in months!"  
  
"I'm just saying... it's a little weird that you want to 'take a break' right before you go down to where she is... that's all..."  
  
"Jesus, Mon," he groaned.  
  
"I want you to promise me something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Promise me. Promise me that no matter what happens, you won't do anything with that girl. No matter what happens to us. Promise me."  
  
"Monica..."  
  
"Promise me! What's so hard about that, if you don't have feelings for her?"  
  
"Fine. Fine. I promise."  
  
***  
  
"Gotta tell you, Joe," Chandler grinned, "It's a beautiful thing to be watching you eat."  
  
"Somebody's gotta eat it," Joey replied, eyeing his cheeseburger lovingly. "You should see the people on the set. Every girl's like, a size negative four, and it's all, 'Ooo! Could you cut that piece of sushi in half for me? It's just toooo much fooood.'" Joey flipped an imaginary lock of hair.  
  
"Oh, hey," Chandler remembered, "I wanted to show you this." He passed Joey the picture of the chick and the duck.  
  
"Hey, all right!" Joey laughed, holding the photo up. "They look happy... don't you think they look happy?"  
  
"How could they not be happy? They're down there," Chandler grinned.  
  
Joey smiled sadly. "You really miss your little house, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I do. Not as much as I miss you, though."  
  
"You heard from Megan?"  
  
"No... actually, look. I sort of... have this agreement with Monica that I won't talk to her anymore."  
  
"You what?"  
  
"Monica feels uncomfortable, you know. So I told her I'd only talk to Megan a few times a year."  
  
"You mean I gave her all that good Joey-lovin' for nothin'?"  
  
Chandler groaned. "You slept with Megan because of Monica?"  
  
"Well, yeah, mostly. I mean, gimme some credit, I'm slow on the uptake sometimes, not brain-dead... the situation was obvious. And she was hot. That didn't hurt."  
  
Ask him. Ask him. You know you want to know, and you're never gonna get to ask her.  
  
"Hey Joe? Can I ask you kind of... a weird question?"  
  
"Anything, man."  
  
"When you were with Megan, did you notice a... tattoo?"  
  
Joey began to chuckle.  
  
"Kinda hard to miss, Chandler."  
  
"Well... where was it?"  
  
"It was... well. It was *right* above her stuff, dude."  
  
Chandler grinned at the confirmation of his suspicions.  
  
"What was it?"  
  
"It was a sentence. In Italian."  
  
"What'd it say?"  
  
Joey just laughed.  
  
"Joey!"  
  
"So how's the tour going?"  
  
"Joey..." Chandler threatened. "You're killing me here."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, how often do I know something you don't? Ya gotta let me savor this moment."  
  
"Joey!"  
  
Joey was unable to suppress his smirk. "It said... 'Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate'."  
  
"In English, dammit!"  
  
Joey laughed again. "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here."  
  
Chandler dropped his fork, and Joey burst into fresh peals of giggles.  
  
***  
  
Monica pried one eye open, rolling over.  
  
Ring. Ring.  
  
Good god. Who was calling here at this hour?  
  
Ring. Ring.  
  
"Hello?" Monica croaked into the phone.  
  
Her voice softened immediately. "Mom? Mom, that's you, right? Mom, I can't understand you..."  
  
The color drained from Monica's face. "Oh my god, Mom. I'll be right there." She paused. "Of course I'll call Ross."  
  
She hit the button twice, dialing Ross' number in a cold sweat.  
  
"Hello?" he responded, sounded about as awake as she had.  
  
"Ross. Ross. It's Monica."  
  
"Hey, Mon... what's up?"  
  
"Ross... it's Daddy. He had a heart attack."  
  
***  
  
"Knock-knock... I brought the leading lady some flowers," Chandler said, opening the dressing room door.  
  
"Well, aren't you *divine*," Charles Bing smiled luxuriously. "C'mon in, son. I just need to change and we can go."  
  
"Hey, Dad," Chandler grinned. "The show was great."  
  
"I'm glad you could come, baby," Charles said, picking up a dress from the back of a chair and slipping behind a changing screen. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your book-signing-thing."  
  
"That's okay, Dad, it was *really* boring."  
  
"I saw you on TV Monday! You looked very handsome." Charles walked out from behind the screen, resplendent in a summery sundress.  
  
"Hey, nice dress, Dad," Chandler said. He was getting pretty good at doing that with a straight face.  
  
"I just wish your mother could have seen it. The TV show, darling, not my dress. She'd be very, very proud of you, you know."  
  
"I wish Mom could have seen it, too."  
  
Charles stepped to the vanity and began applying mascara. "So when are we going down to Georgia? I need to schedule some vacation."  
  
Chandler sighed. "Actually, Dad... I don't know if I'll be going down to Georgia anymore."  
  
"Why not? You sounded ready to marry the place when you called me from there."  
  
"Stuff changed," Chandler said morosely, sitting down on the red velvet chaise.  
  
"Tell Daddy all about it," Charles purred, blotting his lipstick.  
  
"Well, Monica doesn't like it down there very much. It's kind of dirty and damp for her tastes..."  
  
"Ah, yes, your wife... had almost forgot about that. She spent your reception making sure people used their coasters."  
  
Chandler laughed. "Yeah, that's Mon."  
  
"You know... it's funny, Chandler," Charles mused, slipping rings on his fingers. "When you were little, you hated the New York apartment so much. All that white, no room for a little kid with juice and crackers... I have to admit, I was very surprised when you seemed so happy in the same basic situation."  
  
"Well, you know what they say... you marry your mom... 's apartment..."  
  
"So that's it? It's just dirty and damp? I assume she's heard of Clorox and dehumidifiers...?"  
  
"It's not just that. She's a little paranoid about Megan."  
  
"Megan Mitchell? Delores' daughter?"  
  
"Yeah... Megan and I got to be pretty close, and it bothers Monica. Unfortunately for me, Megan grew up to be sort of earth-shakingly hot."  
  
"Your wife, as I recall, was earth-shakingly hot."  
  
"Well yeah, but Megan's... Megan's different. I mean, we have so much in common, you know? We can talk for hours and hours and hours, about pretty much anything. And she has my sense of humor, too. I mean... the girl has 'Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here' tattooed above her *stuff*. How sick, and perverted, and wonderful, and totally me is that?"  
  
The corners of Charles' mouth turned up. "Ah. I can see why Monica's upset."  
  
"Well, yeah..."  
  
"Since you're obviously in love with her," Charles continued casually, examining an eyebrow in the mirror.  
  
"Dad... I'm *not*. Why does everyone keep saying that?"  
  
"I'm going to go with... 'because it's pathetically obvious'. How's that?"  
  
"Dad..." Chandler sighed. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Because I promised Monica I wouldn't do anything with her, ever, even if Monica dies. And I've also agreed not to talk to her."  
  
"Well," Charles said flatly. "*That* was stupid of you, wasn't it?"  
  
"I didn't really have a choice, Dad."  
  
"Of course you had a choice. There's always a choice, son. Kobayashi Maru."  
  
Chandler laughed out loud. "That is *shockingly* geeky of you, Dad!"  
  
"Yeah, well," Charles chuckled. "I had a shockingly geeky son. C'mon, let's go eat. I'm famished, and I know this great 24-hour buffet."  
  
***  
  
"Daddy," Monica cried, launching herself across the hospital room and taking her father's hand.  
  
"Whoa, easy there, pumpkin," Jack Geller said weakly. "Daddy's not feeling so great at the moment."  
  
"I was so scared you weren't going to be here when I got here," Monica sobbed, pressing her father's hand to her cheek.  
  
"I was kinda scared about that, too," Jack admitted, laying his hand over hers. "But I'm okay, sweetie. Mostly okay, anyway. Where's Chandler?"   
  
"He's on a book tour, daddy. But I'm sure he wants you to get better. Ross, Rachel, and Emma are on their way up from Boston, okay? And Mom's waiting her turn."  
  
"Oh, okay... are you going home?"  
  
"No, daddy, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right in the waiting room, okay?"  
  
She reluctantly let go of Jack's hand and walked out of the hospital room, motioning to Judy that she could go on in.  
  
She sat down next to a figure asleep on a row of chairs, then did a double-take. "Richard?"  
  
"Hey, Mon," Richard said sleepily, sitting up and grabbing his side. "Oh *god*, I'm too old to be doing that."  
  
"Have you been here all night?"  
  
"Yeah, I brought your dad in. Is he feeling better?"  
  
"He seems to be." Monica felt fresh tears spring to her eyes. "Oh god, Richard... I was so scared..."  
  
"C'mere," he said, pulling her into a hug. "It's okay. He's gonna be fine."  
  
"Those damn cigars... I told him not to smoke those..."  
  
"Hush, sshh. He's fine, he's gonna be fine."  
  
***  
  
"This looks frightening," Richard said, opening his plastic container with a look of disgust. "Are you sure that's food?"  
  
Monica opened her own container and peered into it. "No, no, I'm really not. It's sort of a... food-like color, though."  
  
"If this is what they feed the patients, no wonder they're all sick." Richard poked at a green, vaguely spinach-like blob with his fork before setting the container aside. "Look. Why don't I take you to a real restaurant and buy you some real lunch?"  
  
"I don't know if I should leave..."  
  
"Sweetie. Your dad's stable and asleep. There's nothing you can do for him right now. We've been here for... what? 36 hours? At least let me drive you home so you can catch a nap and a shower. Rachel and Ross went home hours ago."  
  
"Well, that's the thing... they went 'home' to my apartment. Ross and Rachel are in my room, and Emma and Ben are in the other one..."  
  
"Okay, new plan. We grab some decent food, we go to *my* apartment, and you can use my shower and crash out in the guest room. I even have some of your old clothes you can change into."  
  
A shower, clean clothes, and a nap *did* sound amazingly wonderful.  
  
***  
  
Monica woke up, stretching luxuriously before opening her eyes and stumbling into the living room.  
  
Richard sat on the couch, reading a book in the glow of yellow lamplight, eyeglasses on and obviously immersed. A wonderful smell was coming from the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, you're up," he smiled, putting his book down and standing up. "I made soup... you want some?"  
  
"Ohhhh yeah," she smiled, following Richard into the kitchen.  
  
He'd already set the table. Beautiful dishes surrounded a rustic wooden bowl filled with mixed green salad, a cruet of dressing, a platter with a crusty French loaf, and a small assortment of cheeses. Wine glasses sparkled, and he had a bottle of her favorite white wine breathing at the side of the table.  
  
Monica couldn't help sighing. Chandler's idea of setting the table for soup meant making sure the Saltine crackers were within easy reach... which he would then dump in crushed-up handfuls into everything from Vichyssoise to Gratinée.  
  
She sat down, and Richard poured her wine expertly, raising glasses for a toast.  
  
"To Jack," he said. "In the hope that we've learnt what he means to us, and the hope that we'll have years to tell him how much."  
  
"To Dad," she replied. They clinked glasses together.  
  
Richard served her with grace, and Monica watched him move, enraptured. Even sitting here with messed-up hair in her old sweatshirt... Richard had a way of making her feel like a princess.  
  
Everything was, of course, exquisite. Richard had flawless taste.   
  
"C'mon," she protested as they finished the meal. "At least let me help you do the dishes..."  
  
"No way," Richard grinned, carrying plates to the sink. "You're my guest! Sit and talk to me. What's going on with you? Besides the obvious."  
  
"Chandler's on a book tour," she began, folding her napkin neatly. "So that's a little weird."  
  
"You must miss him," Richard said, up to his elbows in suds.  
  
"Actually, we're..." she sighed. "Sort of 'on a break'."  
  
"Oh." Richard's eyebrows soared.  
  
"Yeah, pretty much."  
  
"You guys will work it out," Richard said soothingly. "C'mon! You're soulmates."  
  
"I don't believe in soulmates, Richard."  
  
"You said he was at your wedding..."  
  
"You didn't come to my wedding."  
  
Richard chuckled in embarrassment. "Actually, I kinda did. I didn't come in, though."  
  
"Richard... I... god. If I'd known you'd *ever* want to come, I would have invited you...!"  
  
"C'mon, Mon, that would have been really weird and you know it. I just... happened to be walking by the hotel, and I thought I'd see how pretty you looked in your dress."  
  
"You happened to be walking by the hotel?"  
  
"Walking by, sulking outside... is there a difference? Look, I shouldn't have told you, I don't want to make you uncomfortable."  
  
"You're not making me uncomfortable," Monica said, shocking herself to discover that she wasn't lying. "It's flattering."  
  
"Anyway... it's just... I thought you *did* believe in soulmates."  
  
"Well..." Monica sighed. "I used to."  
  
"What changed your mind?"  
  
Because I didn't end up with mine. Because I didn't end up with you. Because I screwed everything up...  
  
"Just got older and more jaded, I guess," she smiled.  
  
"Well that's sad," Richard replied. "If there's one thing you never were, it's jaded."  
  
"Well now I'm just a jaded, insane, nutcase," Monica laughed.  
  
"Nutcase? What's this?" Richard put the last dish away and dried his hands on a towel.  
  
"Chandler wants us to go to therapy. Says I'm 'one big quirk'."  
  
"Well, that's not very fair."  
  
"No, no, it is. I can kinda see his point, I guess... I have gotten a lot more 'Monica-y' over the years."  
  
"More like you? I can't imagine that being a bad thing."  
  
"He can," she muttered darkly.  
  
"Well, look," Richard said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. "Chandler's the luckiest man on the planet, being married to you. And if he doesn't see that, well, I'd *love* to have a talk with him about it."  
  
Monica laughed quietly, imagining how badly *that* conversation would go. "Thanks, Richard. That's not necessary."  
  
"Mon? Are you happy?"  
  
Monica sighed, putting both hands on the tablecloth. "No, Richard. I'm really, really not. Chandler isn't either, I can tell. But this will pass... won't it?"  
  
"Monica. I know I'm not the most impartial person to be discussing this with... but there's something married people *do* when both of them are unhappy in the marriage."  
  
"Don't say the D-Word, Richard..."  
  
"Fine. I won't." Richard leaned against the counter. "It's just... dammit. Every morning, I wake up, and you're not there... and I think 'God, why was I so stupid, why didn't I jump up and down and do cartwheels when she wanted to have children...'"  
  
Monica let out a little bark of sad laughter. "You wouldn't have had to bother, really. Ironically enough, I can't have kids."  
  
Richard's face plummeted. "Oh... honey..."  
  
He swooped her into a hug, stroking her hair. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I know, I know so well, how badly you wanted that..."  
  
Monica breathed deeply, filling her lungs with Richard-smell, so comforted in his arms.  
  
See, *this* is how Chandler should have reacted. Like this. Not careening off into a selfish rant about himself.  
  
Richard held her out at arm's length. "Monica, I just want to say one more thing. I'd like to be polite, back off, but dammit... that's how I lost you the second time."  
  
He swallowed. "If you think you like kids... Mon, you'd love grandkids. All of the fun, all of the spoiling, all of the love, none of the work. I have four, they're all adorable, and I have two more on the way. The ones that knew you loved you... the others would, too."  
  
"I think I could make you happy, Monica. Really happy. It's been a decade since we were together, and I haven't stopped loving you or thinking about you for one second."  
  
"Richard... I'm married."  
  
"I know, Mon. That's why I'm talking and not kissing."  
  
Kissing. Oh god, she'd love to kiss him. She'd never forgotten it. Her blood grew warm at the very thought.  
  
"Richard... if I don't go... I *will* be kissing you. And I'm married, and my dad's sick, and I... I just can't deal with all this right now."  
  
"I understand," Richard said sadly. "C'mon. Let's go back to the hospital."  
  
***  
  
Chandler popped his knuckles, rubbing a thumb into his cramping palm.   
  
"How much longer?" he whispered to Bill.  
  
"We close in about ten minutes," Bill said quietly.  
  
Ten minutes. He could make his hand operate for ten more minutes. Then it could fall off and it would all be okay.  
  
"It's crazy... the other ones haven't been anything like this."  
  
"Dragon*Con just closed a few hours ago," Bill said. "Lots of horror fans still in town with nothing to do."  
  
"Ah," Chandler said. That explained the rather hungover look most of the people had been wearing today.  
  
Another book pushed across the table, and Chandler opened it with pain.  
  
"Could you make it out to 'Leia'?" a soft voice said.  
  
His head snapped up. "Megan?"  
  
She grinned, and his heart exploded in warmth. "Get out of line! Come sit with me. Can somebody get her a chair?"  
  
Chandler signed the last books in a blur of excitement, sighing with relief when Bill locked the front doors. He turned to Megan, unable to keep the goofy smile off his face.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I wanted my book signed," she laughed. "This baby's gonna be worth a mint."  
  
"Mr. Bing?" Bill said. "Would you like us to get you a car to the hotel?"  
  
"Um, no, Bill, thanks," Chandler said. "I have somewhere to stay tonight." He turned to Megan. "Don't I?"  
  
"Hell, yeah!"  
  
They walked together into the dark parking lot, Chandler flinging his arms around her. "Oh, god. I missed you, kid."  
  
"I missed you too," she said into his chest, squeezing him tight. "You wanna go home?"  
  
"Do I ever."  
  
***  
  
He followed Megan into the house, duffel bag in hand.   
  
"I'm sorry it's messy..." she apologized, hurriedly gathering up a stack of books on the coffee table. "I'm not as good of a housekeeper as your wife..."  
  
"Leave it, leave it, please," Chandler said, setting the bag on the table. "I think it's awesome that the house looks like somebody lives here."  
  
"Well, I definitely live here. Thanks to you and your blackmail..."  
  
A loud quacking came from the bathroom, and the duck appeared, waddling towards Chandler joyously.  
  
"Speak of the devil," Chandler grinned, then turned to Megan. "You let them live in the house."  
  
"Was I not supposed to?"  
  
"No, no. You were." He bent down and patted the duck. "Hey, buddy. You like it here?"  
  
"Dick loves the swimmin'," Megan smiled. "And I *think* he's getting a girlfriend."  
  
"Where's my chicken?" Chandler called.  
  
Yasmine strutted down the stairs, and Megan opened the cookie jar to reveal that it was filled with chicken feed.  
  
She held out a handful for the rooster. "He's the best alarm clock in the world."  
  
"Thank you so much for taking care of them."  
  
"They're good company."  
  
They stared at each other for a moment, then turned away simultaneously.  
  
"You must be tired," Megan blurted.  
  
"Yeah, I am. I guess I'll go to the guest room."  
  
"Are you kidding? I'm not kicking a man out of his own bed on his one night home. *I'll* sleep in the guest room."  
  
She gave Chandler a quick kiss on the cheek and headed upstairs.  
  
Chandler carried his duffel bag into his bedroom, turning on the lamp and grinning.  
  
Megan had gotten his sheets out of the trash.  
  
He ripped off his clothes quickly, sliding into bed with a groan of total happiness. He rolled over and mooshed his face into the pillow, breathing deeply.  
  
Oh, god. It smelled like her.  
  
Peaches and shampoo and that unmistakeable Megan-smell. He felt his body react and laid back with a sigh.  
  
"Bing," he muttered, "You are *not* getting turned on by sniffing a pillow. You haven't sunk quite that low yet, all right?"  
  
"Chandler...? Did you need something?"  
  
Megan appeared in his doorway, carrying a glass of water, already dressed for bed in a tank top and a too-large pair of boxer shorts that showed off a great deal of pale, creamy, curvy hip and well-turned leg.  
  
"Did you need something?" she repeated.  
  
I need you to come in here and kiss me. I need you to lie down next to me and stay there all night. I need you to let me run my fingers through your hair, I need you to let me peel that tank top off, I need you to...  
  
"No, no. I was just... calling for the chick and the duck."  
  
"Oh, okay." She looked over her shoulder. "Dick! Yasmine! Come keep your dad company."  
  
They came a-waddling, and she flashed a grin at him. "Here are your boys. G'night, Chandler."  
  
And she was gone.  
  
Chandler pulled his left hand up in front of his face, staring at the ring there, focusing on it.  
  
He was married. Married. To his best friend in the world. And sure, they weren't getting along right now, but that was no reason to be thinking lewd thoughts about girls in boxer shorts, dammit.  
  
"You're obviously in love with her," said his dad's voice in his head.  
  
"I'm not, dad, I'm not," Chandler whispered. "At least... I'm trying like hell not to be." 


	9. Doggie Vomit

2005  
  
Megan reached for her cellphone groggily, wiping sleep out of her eyes. "Hello?"  
  
"Megan? It's Bill."  
  
"Hey..." she glanced over for the clock, then remembered she was in the guest room. "What's up?"  
  
"Well, it's Saturday morning, and Marjorie was supposed to open. Guess what that means?"  
  
"Oh, god... she called in 'sick' again?"  
  
"Like clockwork."  
  
"Bill -- why do you even schedule her for Saturdays?"  
  
"Because if she does this one more time, I can fire her ass. Megan... please?"  
  
"Bill... it's my *birthday*. I'm having a party at three o'clock! And I have... a houseguest... that I *really* want to spend time with..."  
  
"Meg, honey, I *know* it's your birthday. Believe me, I already called everyone else. Lucy can come in at one... could I just get you from eight until then?"  
  
"Bill..."  
  
"I'll have you out by one on the dot... I'll kill Lucy personally if she's late... I'll give you Sunday off!"  
  
Megan flopped back on the bed. "Fine... I'll be there in a few minutes. But Bill... you owe me like you've never owed me before."  
  
***   
  
"Honey, sssh. Emma, ssssh," Rachel soothed, bouncing Emma up and down outside the hospital doors. "Hospitals are a quiet place, honey, c'mon... we can't go back in and see daddy until you're quiet..."  
  
Rachel felt nearly ready to have a tantrum herself... the muscles in her arms were quaking with exhaustion, and her eardrums were nearly bleeding. Emma'd gone into one of her screamy moods and would not be stopped. She didn't understand what was wrong with her grandfather... and apparently, her preferred method of dealing with it was to do a four-hour impression of an air-raid siren.  
  
"Emma... sweetie..." Rachel pleaded. "C'mon, honey..."  
  
She blushed as another cab pulled up and Emma's wails only grew louder. God, everyone who walked by probably thought she was some sort of evil mother-monster.  
  
And as suddenly as it began, Emma's hideous noisemaking stopped. "Aunnmonifa," Emma stated calmly, as if she hadn't been screaming bloody murder five seconds before.  
  
"Where, sweetie?"  
  
Rachel turned around to see Monica getting out of the cab... followed closely by Richard. Rachel's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Hey, you guys!" she called, as casually as she could.  
  
Richard smiled and waved, changing direction to come say hello, but Monica froze mid-step, guilt creeping up over her face.  
  
"Hey, Rachel," Richard said. "Hey, Emma. How are you doing?"  
  
"We're fine," Rachel replied, eyes still on Monica.  
  
"Hey, Rach," Monica said nervously.  
  
"Hey, Richard... would it be okay if I talked to Monica alone for a few minutes? Girl stuff."  
  
"Sure... want me to take her up to Ross?"  
  
"I don't know, she's been kind of fussy..."  
  
But Emma, the tiny traitor, went happily into Richard's arms, rolling her eyes adorably at him.  
  
"Sure, that'd be fine," Rachel amended with a sigh.  
  
She waited until the doors had shut behind Richard before turning on Monica with a glare. "You have something to tell me?"  
  
"Rachel, it's not what it looks like."  
  
"Oh really? You've been gone for *hours*, you're with *Richard*, you're wearing different *clothes*. I know what it *looks* like, so what is it?"  
  
"I used his shower and took a nap in his guest room, Rachel. It was perfectly innocent. He had some of my old clothes."  
  
"So can I ask you a question? Where's Chandler?"  
  
"He's on his book tour, Rachel... you *know* that."  
  
"Your father had a heart attack two *days* ago, Monica. Chandler would be here by now... if he knew. But he doesn't know, does he?"  
  
"I don't want to bother him. There's nothing he can do!"  
  
"Uh-huh. You don't think it's not gonna 'bother him' that you didn't even call him when something this huge happened?"  
  
"Look, I don't want to call him, okay? We agreed... we're not really going to be in contact. We're on a..."   
  
Monica remembered who she was talking to, and snapped her mouth shut... but not in time.  
  
"Break?" Rachel finished, heat flaring in her eyes. "Is that the word you just ate?"  
  
"Rachel, don't..."  
  
"Don't what? Marvel in amazement at the universality of the Geller Dictionary?"  
  
"Rachel, I didn't *do* anything, okay! I took a shower, I took a nap, I ate some soup!"  
  
"Well, there's only one solution for *this*," Rachel announced, crossing her arms.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Well obviously, Richard has to sleep with Joey."  
  
"What is *that* supposed to mean?"  
  
"You practically glared the skin off that poor girl who cleans Chandler's house, but it's perfectly okay for you to go have *sleepovers* at Richard's?"   
  
"Look," Monica snapped. "That 'poor girl' would move *into* Chandler's pants given a second's opportunity, okay? Richard's not like that."  
  
"Uh-huh, yeah, 'cause Richard doesn't like *you* at *all*. Richard thinks you *smell*."  
  
"It's not the same."  
  
"Yeah, it's not, is it, Mon? 'Cause in the years you and Chandler have been together, *all* the cheating that I can recall... has been done by *you*."  
  
"That's not fair!"  
  
"Isn't it? Who kissed the waiter? *That* wasn't Chandler... he couldn't even kiss Phoebe, on a *bet*, with you *telling* him to! Who nearly went back to Richard? That wasn't Chandler either, was it? Who had lunch with Richard behind Chandler's back and lied to him about it? Who let me set them up on a date just to get back at Chandler? Funny, I don't think Chandler did *any* of those things. Hell, Monica... the man *quit* his *job* because you got worried about his hot co-worker!"  
  
"He quit his job because he *hated* it, Rachel!"  
  
"He *stayed* there for a *decade*! He *quit* the day you went all woofy over that Wendy girl!"  
  
Rachel pulled her cellphone out of Emma's diaper bag and thrust it at Monica. "Call him. Tell him."  
  
"Rachel..."  
  
"Call him, or I will! And won't *that* make you look good?"  
  
Monica took the cellphone and dialed Chandler's cellphone number. She listened for a moment, then pressed the "end" button. "See? It says he's out of range."  
  
"So call his agent, leave a message."  
  
Monica groaned, reaching in her purse for Chandler's agent's card.  
  
"Hello?" Neil answered.  
  
"Neil? It's Monica Bing."  
  
"Hey, Monica! What's up?"  
  
"Um, Neil? My father had a heart attack."  
  
"Oh my god, Monica, is he okay? Do you need me to get a message to Chandler?"  
  
"Yes, he's fine. And yes, please. I tried to call his cellphone, but he was out of range..."  
  
"Oh," Neil said. "He ended up having Saturday off, he went up to that little house of his... one of his friends picked him up."  
  
"Was her name 'Megan'?" Monica asked, and Rachel's eyes flew open.  
  
"Um... yeah... I think so? She told me she caretakes the house for you guys."  
  
"Thanks, Neil," Monica said pleasantly. "I'll try him there. Thanks!"  
  
She hung up, passing the phone to Rachel with a smirk on her face. "You were saying...? Something, let's see, I *think* it was about me being *paranoid*?"  
  
Rachel's face was ashen. "C'mon, Monica, at least give him the benefit of the doubt..."  
  
"You didn't give *me* the benefit of the doubt!"  
  
"Yes I did! Mostly! I *asked* you about it, anyway!" Rachel bit her lip. "Monica, at least call him at the house. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation."  
  
Monica took the phone back, dialing the house number and letting it ring. "He's not picking up. You know *why* he's not picking up? Because he's *naked*!"  
  
"Or he could be out getting pizza. Monica, be reasonable."  
  
"I *am* being reasonable, Rachel. I asked him not to talk to her. He's obviously talking to her...! I asked him not to see her, and he's sleeping in the same house... probably in the same bed. If he's not doing anything wrong, why didn't he call me and tell me where he was going to be?"  
  
"Maybe he did! You haven't been home in days!"  
  
"You and Ross have been there!" Monica put her hands on her hips. "Look, Rachel. My marriage is *over*. It's been over for a while, I was just too blind to see it."  
  
She thrust the cellphone into Rachel's hand. "And if you'll excuse me... I think I'll go see how Richard is doing."  
  
"Monica..." Rachel began, dropping to a whisper as Monica pushed through the double doors, "... I think you're making a mistake."   
  
***  
  
Megan turned the car off, moaned, and dropped her head against the steering wheel.  
  
Marjorie was the deadest woman in the history of really dead women, seconded only by Lucy, who's been an hour late.  
  
It was thirty minutes until her party... and she had made *no* food, gotten *no* drinks, done *no* decorating. She hadn't showered, she looked like absolute hell, and she was covered in an aromatic blend of puppy puke and bunny pee.  
  
Worse, someone was already here... there was a green Honda parked by the guard rail. She'd warned Chandler that people were coming over in her note, but she hadn't meant for him to have to play host to total strangers. If he was even still here... if she hadn't missed the last moments of his visit completely.  
  
She slid the seatbelt off, noting with a groan that she'd managed to smear it in doggie vomit, and dragged herself to the end of the pier.  
  
Where her jaw fell open.  
  
The fairy lights she'd bought for the party had been hung up all over the railings. There were streamers and balloons, a huge "Happy Birthday Megan" sign over the front door, and from the charcoal smell in the air, the grill was already going.  
  
Oh My God. Oh My God. Oh My God!  
  
She launched herself down the pier, flinging the front door open. Chandler stood, dressed up and grinning, behind a huge, lit birthday cake on the kitchen counter.  
  
"Happy Birthday to you..." he sang, shocking her with how pleasant his singing voice was. "Happy Birthday to you... Happy Birthday..." he coughed a little, "... girl who smells really weird... Happy Birthday to you!"  
  
"Oh my god," Megan shrieked in joy. "If I weren't covered in dog vomit, you would be so covered in kisses right now!"  
  
"Everything's ready for your party," Chandler smiled. "It's a good thing you make detailed to-do lists."  
  
"Oh my god, you are so, so awesome," she blurted.  
  
"Come blow 'em out. Upwind from me, if possible."  
  
Megan laughed out loud and crossed to Chandler, blowing the candles out in one smooth motion.  
  
"Very impressive for a smoker," he said, and they shared a grin. He pushed a white box towards her. "Open it."  
  
"Chandler, no! You've done so much more than enough!"  
  
"Open it, dammit," he demanded.  
  
"I'm so gross," she said. "You open it."  
  
Chandler smiled and opened the box, pulling out an apple-green sundress and holding it against his body. "It's really not my color, though."  
  
"Chandler...!" Megan breathed. "It's my *favorite* color. How'd you know?"  
  
"I didn't," he said, blushing a little. "It, um, matched your eyes." He cleared his throat in embarrassment, putting on a serious tone. "Anyway, I thought you'd like to have something pretty to wear for your party. There's shoes, too."  
  
"You... you... oh my god. How'd you even know it was my birthday?"  
  
"Well, I got your note about people coming over, and I saw it on your calendar. Found your to-do list, realized you'd never have time to-do it... and that I didn't have a present for you... so... I rented a car, and... to-did it."  
  
"Chandler... I... I don't even know what to say. Look, if you and Monica *ever* want my first-born child..."  
  
Chandler's face fell suddenly. Megan gasped.  
  
"What'd I say? Oh god, please tell me I didn't ruin this."  
  
"You didn't ruin anything, Leia," Chandler said sadly. "Go shower -- your guests will be here any minute."  
  
Megan hopped nervously. "Okay... you sure you're okay?"  
  
"I'm fine, I swear. Go shower! You stink."  
  
"Chandler..." Megan cried, running to the bathroom with her box of goodies in hand, "I'm never gonna forget this. I can't believe you did all this... and got me all this..."  
  
She shut the bathroom door behind her, and Chandler sighed aloud.  
  
"Yeah," he muttered, pulling candles out of the cake and setting them aside. "Got you pretty much everything but the crystal duck."  
  
***  
  
"Richard," Monica whispered, grabbing him by the arm. "Richard... could we go somewhere and talk, please?"  
  
"Sure, Mon... what's up?"  
  
Monica led him through the hospital, out into a greenway, and sat down on a bench. Richard followed suit.  
  
"Mon, are you okay? You look weird."  
  
"I'm leaving Chandler."  
  
"You're... you're what?"  
  
"I've decided to leave Chandler."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He went down to see that Megan girl again, Richard. It's so over. I mean, he's sneaking around to see her... I'm basically sneaking around to see you... that *says* something, all right?"  
  
"Monica... look. You're upset right now. Why don't you take some time and really think about this before you make a decision?"  
  
"I thought you wanted me back!"  
  
"I do! But Monica... you came back to me the *last* time you got mad at Chandler. And just when I'd gotten my hopes up, you left me. That didn't *feel* so great, okay? And call me selfish, but I'm not going through that again. You come to me when you're *ready* and you *mean it*."  
  
"Richard..."  
  
"Monica... I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, ever. I can't be your safety net. It hurts too bad. I... feel too much."  
  
"Richard... I'll be back. I've made up my mind. If you need time to believe that I've made up my mind, that's fine. But I'll be back."  
  
***  
  
Chandler leaned against the railing, sipping his beer and reveling in the very strange feeling of being surrounded by people... and allowed to smoke.  
  
"So you must be Chandler."  
  
He swiveled towards the sound of the voice, a painfully thin man a few years younger than him, losing a constant battle to keep a floppy set of bangs out of his eyes.  
  
"Guilty as charged."  
  
"I'm Keith... I'm an old friend of Megan's."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Keith..."  
  
"Okay, look... I've been working up the nerve to do this all night... and you can shoot me down if you want to..."  
  
Chandler stared at Keith curiously, and Keith swallowed hard.  
  
"Um. I'm an artist. Not professionally. But I'd like to be. And Megan, well, she told me you love comics. I read 'Noon Shadow', and I think... well... I think it'd make a great graphic novel."  
  
Keith held out a battered sketchbook. "I did some drawings... I thought maybe you might want to look at them."  
  
Chandler took the sketchbook, racking his brain for ways to let the poor kid down easy. "I'd never really thought about that... graphic novels, I mean..."  
  
He took a breath, mentally preparing himself to have to say nice things about the standard 'I wanna be in comics' fare... big-breasted women, impossibly pecced-out guys in tights...  
  
Chandler flipped the cover. And gasped.  
  
"This is... this is the Mannot house," he said, reaching out to touch the image, then pulling back for fear of smudging the pencils. "It's... it's exactly how it was in my mind."  
  
Keith smiled shyly. "You described it pretty good."  
  
Chandler flipped another page, laughing in recognition. "The farm, right? Your shadow work... it's just incredible..."  
  
"And there's the squirrel from page 72," Keith pointed out, tapping the book with a fingernail.  
  
"You have an amazing eye for detail," Chandler said, impressed, as he flipped another page.  
  
And stopped breathing.  
  
"This... this is *Megan*," Chandler breathed. And it was. Small details had been changed... the hair length and color, most noticeably... but otherwise, it was Megan... nearly leaping off the page, caught in mid-laugh.  
  
"Well... yeah... didn't you base Sookie on her?"  
  
"No, no... I didn't."  
  
"C'mon, man," Keith laughed nervously. "I read the book five times doing this. Sookie *is* Megan. I'd know, 'cause..."  
  
"'Cause you're in love with her," Chandler finished.  
  
Keith blushed deeply. "Um. Yeah. A little. How'd you know?"  
  
"Don't think anyone who wasn't could draw her like this," Chandler said honestly.  
  
"Well, um, no offense... but that's kinda the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"Look, like I said, I read the book five times. And to steal your own words... I don't think anyone who wasn't in love with Megan could *write* her like that."  
  
"I'm married," Chandler stammered. "Sookie is based on my *wife*."  
  
"I didn't come over here to fight with you, man," Keith smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry I misunderstood."  
  
"No, wait... don't go," Chandler said, catching Keith by the arm. "Look... I don't think I want to do 'Noon Shadow' over, but I have some new ideas that might work. You're really talented, Keith. Do you have a card or something where I could call you, talk to you about some plots?"  
  
Keith's entire face lit up. "I don't have a card, but..."  
  
"Well... could I keep this? Show it to my agent? You could write your number in it..."  
  
"It's got all my contact information in the front," Keith said, tapping the cover lightly. "I've got other notebooks, too... other genres of stuff... I'll go out to my car..."  
  
Keith jogged away, and Chandler opened the notebook again, sighing at the portrait of Megan. My god, that kid could draw.  
  
He *hadn't* based Sookie on Megan, had he? He'd written Sookie to show Monica that he could write a nice character based on her... something to make up for the serial killer debacle.  
  
He touched the page lightly, remembering the article that had come out a month or two ago. "Chandler Bing, dispelling all rumors from last year, has written a poignant and terrifying love letter to his wife... and caused America to fall in love in the process."  
  
His sex life had improved *considerably* after Monica had read that one.  
  
Of course Sookie was based on Monica. She looked like her... had eleven categories of towels... had that frenchy poster thing hanging in her apartment. Keith was just reading too much into it... y'know, he probably *projected* Megan onto the character.  
  
Yeah, that's the ticket.  
  
Chandler headed inside to put the notebook in a safe place, still building a fort of rationalizations as he went.  
  
***  
  
"Pheebs," Mike called, catching her by the arm as they headed upstairs. "Hey, wait up."  
  
"Huh?" Phoebe asked, turning around slightly, a vague look in her eyes.  
  
"Honey... what happened to you out there? Y'know, 'Smelly Cat' doesn't usually include a two-minute piano solo while the lead singer sort of stares into the audience blankly."  
  
"Sorry, Mike... I was preoccupied."  
  
Mike laughed gently. "Yeah, I caught *that*, babe. What's up?"  
  
"Um, just one of my things."  
  
"Your..." Mike struggled to make his face properly respectful and serious, "Future visions?"  
  
"Yeah," Phoebe said casually. "How much longer until the first leg of the tour is up?"  
  
"Another month... why?"  
  
"Ah, that's soon enough," Phoebe said, kissing Mike on the cheek and hurrying up the stairs to the dressing room.  
  
"Phoebe... Phoebe! Aw, man..."  
  
And Mike began to run up the stairs after her.  
  
***  
  
"So you must be Chandler," the girl said, taking a swig from her plastic cup and extending her hand.  
  
"Is that some kind of standard greeting around here?" Chandler demanded. "You're like the fifth person to say that to me."  
  
"We've just been waiting a while to meet the wonderful, amazing, fabulous, perfect and special Chandler Bing," the girl replied. "The name's Becca, by the way."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Becca. But you'll soon discover that I'm the rather mediocre Chandler Bing."  
  
"Not on Planet Megan," Becca laughed. "She told me what you did for her today. Big thumbs-up. The dress is nice, too."  
  
"Well, she looks great in it."  
  
"Aren't you married?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I am," Chandler said defensively. "I think I'm still allowed to say she looks nice... but I could call my wife and check..."  
  
"Just sayin'. You seemed *awfully* interested in her conversation with Brent."  
  
"Is that his name?" Chandler said lightly. The guy had been shadowing Megan all afternoon and had finally pulled her off into a private conversation that Megan didn't seem too happy to be in.  
  
"You never met her ex-fiance?"  
  
Chandler felt a pang of jealousy shoot through his heart and shoved it back down immediately. "Nope, never."  
  
"Lucky you," Becca said darkly.  
  
Chandler changed the subject quickly. "So, can I ask you a question? What's with the uniform?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, you and like, half the girls here have on the same pants, same shirt, and have the same haircut. Are you in a cult?"  
  
Becca sipped her beer. "Thought they *had* lesbians up in the Big Apple."  
  
"Yeah, but they don't have a *dress code*," Chandler replied.  
  
Becca snorted. "You're okay. I guess it's so we can pick each other out in a crowd. Y'know, down here, ya gotta know whether someone's gonna flirt back or shoot you in the name of Jesus."  
  
She set her cup down. "So do you want the dirt on Brent and Megan? I can tell you're dyin' for it."  
  
"You always this blunt?"  
  
"You always this deep in denial? C'mon, ask me."  
  
"Fine. Hand over the dirt."  
  
"Well, first off... he wasn't invited. He just showed up, all hurt to the quick that he wasn't. Brent's your basic bloodsucking whiny-ass leech. And you know what a soft touch Megan is, especially for anything wounded. And Brent's... all wound. Pretty much self-inflicted, too, I mean... a waiter forgets his garlic bread, and it's soul-rending trauma."  
  
"Charming," Chandler spat.  
  
"Yeah, your mom hated his guts."  
  
"My... mom met him?"  
  
"Yeah, we all knew her, pretty much. You know 'Evelyn' in 'Yes, Mistress'? That was me."  
  
"Mom based characters on people she knew?"  
  
"Pretty much all of 'em, yeah... why?"  
  
"That's just... funny. I do it too." He took a sip of his drink. "So can I ask you...? The novel I finished... who were those characters based on? I mean, originally."  
  
"Dunno," Becca said, biting her fingernail. "I mean, Nora didn't write that one."  
  
Chandler nearly lost his grip on his cup. "*What?*"  
  
"She was pretty sick by then. Megan was writing it for her. Nora gave her the basic plot, though."  
  
Chandler took a deep breath. "Megan... wrote... the first half... of 'Carolina Darkness'?"  
  
"Well, yeah... I thought you knew."  
  
"No. No, I didn't know. Excuse me."  
  
Chandler barreled over to Megan and Brent, taking Megan by the arm. "Excuse me, Brent, I need to borrow her."  
  
He hauled Megan around the side of the house.  
  
"Chandler... what... are you mad at me?"  
  
"I am *furious* with you!"  
  
"What... what did I do?"  
  
"You work in a hellhole where dogs vomit on you! You drive an eleven-year-old car! You fall all over yourself thanking me for a *dress* I picked out at *Wal-Mart*, and you didn't tell me that you wrote half a book I made a *shitload* of money on?"  
  
"Oh," Megan said quietly.  
  
"Yeah, 'oh'! That's a pretty big freakin' 'oh'! Megan, I owe you hundreds of thousands of dollars! Not to mention your name on the cover! I can't... I can't *believe* you didn't tell me!"  
  
"Chandler, please don't be mad..."  
  
"I can't help it! You're crazy! You're completely insane!"  
  
"No I'm not, Chandler, seriously. Look. I was *ghost-writing* that book for your mom, okay? She had a deadline, she was sick, I was trying to help. My part of the book wasn't any good! It was the changes *you* made that were so awesome!"  
  
"The first part of the book was *brilliant*," Chandler said through gritted teeth. "I changed it because I had no idea where to go with your story. No other reason."  
  
"Chandler... please don't do this to your mother. What are you going to do, take her name off her last book? She came up with the ideas, Chandler! I was just the writing tool. Seriously, think about this. It would totally tarnish her memory."  
  
"It's not fair," Chandler muttered. "It is totally... *totally*... not fair."  
  
"Okay, I tell you what," Megan said, putting a consoling arm on his sleeve. "I'll write another book someday! And when I do, well, you can *totally* pimp me to your agent, and write me a super-glowing review, okay?"  
  
"You don't have *time* to write," Chandler spat. "You work *two* jobs, Megan. I'm putting your name on the cover."  
  
"Chandler, no! Chandler... please? If you do that, you'll *ruin* what I was trying to do for her. Everything would have been for nothing! Look, Chandler, I'm basically begging you here. Why would you do something *for me* that I really, really don't want you to do?"  
  
"Quit your jobs," Chandler stated.  
  
"What...? I can't..."  
  
"Quit your jobs. You have a new job. You work for me."  
  
"I already work for you, Chandler... I'm your caretaker, remember?"  
  
"So now you work for me full-time. You're my new assistant. Answer my fan mail, shoot my stalkers. You know."  
  
"You don't have any stalkers."  
  
"Which is why *you* will be required to diligently spend all your time writing and waiting for me to *get* stalkers."  
  
"Chandler. I don't want a sugar daddy."  
  
"Yeah, well, *I* want an assistant, and I want it to be you. I get a lot of fan mail, you know. There would be real work involved."  
  
"Chandler... I don't even live in the same *city*..."  
  
"Megan! Do you have any idea how *insane* this is going to drive me? You won't let me be honest and put your name on the cover. You won't let me pay you the money I owe you. You're basically setting me up to be the planet's biggest shithead, here... do you realize that?"  
  
"I would never, never think you were a shithead..."  
  
"I don't care! I would! Would you *please* at least let me do this half-assed, not-nearly-enough thing!"  
  
She crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. Chandler groaned. "Look, Megan. Do you *like* getting puked on by dogs? Cleaning out disgusting cages? Getting called in at six in the morning on your birthday?"  
  
"Not... really..."  
  
"So take this job, *please*. I'll agree to all the other crap. Just do this one thing for me... for my sanity?"  
  
"I'm just not comfortable with this..."  
  
Chandler crossed his arms, readying his killing blow. "You said you'd give me your liver, your first-born child, *anything* I wanted. *This* is what I want. Give it to me, or you are a damn dirty liar."  
  
Megan sighed. "Fine. You're an ass, but fine."  
  
"Damn skippy."  
  
He broke into a smile. "You really... you really do look just amazingly beautiful."  
  
Megan thrust a finger in his face. "No way, Bing. You can't piss me off and then get all sweet on me. I'm not gonna forgive you for at *least* fifteen more minutes. And until then, buddy, you just better start sufferin'."  
  
She started to stalk off, then turned around. "And for your information...? I'm gonna be the most ruthlessly efficient assistant, *ever*. In two weeks, you're going to wonder how you ever functioned without me."  
  
She turned and power-walked over to some of her friends. Chandler laughed and took a sip of his beer.  
  
"Already wondering that, Leia," he sighed. "Been wondering that for months."  
  
***  
  
Monica let herself into the apartment, sighing a little.   
  
Home. Finally.  
  
"Hey, Aunt Monica," Ben called, standing at the door of the guest room. "How's Grandpa?"  
  
Oh... Ben. She'd forgotten Carol and Susan were going to drop him off here. This sort of ruined her "angrily throw everything Chandler owned into boxes" plan.  
  
"He's doing a *lot* better, sweetie." She looked at Ben and saw tears in his eyes. "Aw, honey... c'mere."  
  
Ben rushed into her arms, his head colliding with her breasts. Monica sprang back involuntarily. "Ow!"  
  
Ben's face fell even further. "I hurt you?"  
  
"No, no, sweetie, sorry. My fault. Give me a hug."  
  
Ben did so, tentatively, and Monica bit her lip not to cry out in pain as his head snuggled into her chest. She wrapped her arms around him. "Ben, honey. Grandpa's going to be fine. Tell you what... after I shower and take a nap, we'll both go back to the hospital and see him, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Ben said, swallowing hard.  
  
"I'm just gonna get a shower," Monica said weakly, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door.  
  
She touched her breast experimentally. Ow. Ow. Ow! What the hell? They'd never hurt like this before her period before.  
  
She turned on the water, stripping off her clothes, removing her shirt and bra very gingerly. Under the faucet, she lathered up her hair, trying to remember when her period was supposed to start anyway. Once she and Chandler had given up on conceiving, she'd basically stopped tracking it.  
  
Twenty-eight days... and the last time had been, huh. Just a little bit before Chandler went on tour, so...  
  
Two weeks ago.  
  
It should have started two *weeks* ago.  
  
Monica jumped out of the shower, conditioner dripping from her hair, and began to fumble in the drawers for a pregnancy test.  
  
***  
  
"Caaaaaaaake," Megan intoned, holding up her arms like Frankenstein and lumbering across the living room. "Must... have... more... caaaaaaaaaake..."  
  
Chandler turned around from putting another CD on and caught her around the waist with an arm. Megan continued to Frankenstein in place.  
  
"Look, I didn't buy you the cake so you could kill yourself with it. You've already had two pieces."  
  
"Caaaaaaaaake..."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Caaaaaaaaake..."  
  
"Nope. No more cake for you." Chandler tightened his grip around her.   
  
Megan squirmed like a cat, reaching in the air towards the forbidden box. "C'mon, Chandler, I'll take an extra Glucophage. It's my *birthday*! Don't be mean. I'll test my glucose, right now. You'll see -- it's fine. One more piece."  
  
"Nope, sorry," he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. "You're just going to have to hang out here while I clean."  
  
"Okay, either I'm too short, or you're too strong."  
  
"I'm burly and buff. Also, you're a midget."  
  
"I'm a midget who needs cake! C'mon, let me eat one of the flowers off the top."  
  
"Nope. I'm cuttin' you off." Chandler finished changing the CD and began to pick up plastic cups from around the room. "See, I can do this all night. Because of the buffness. There's no escaping for you."  
  
"I'll tickle your knees!" Megan threatened, reaching down with her fingers. "Muahahahaaa!"  
  
"My knees aren't ticklish, nyah."  
  
"Well hey there, you guys," an angry voice said from the back door. Chandler turned to see Brent, holding a trash bag and wearing a look of jealous rage. "Megan... *darling*... I can see your *underwear*."  
  
"Well, there's only one solution for *that*," Megan chirped. "Cake! More cake is the cure for all underwear visibility!"  
  
"See... you're not even making sense," Chandler laughed, throwing cups in the trash. "No more sugar, no way."  
  
"The cake/underwear correlation has been proven in many double-blind trials," Megan protested. "And I should at least get half a piece for using 'correlation' in a sentence."  
  
Brent spun on his heel and slammed the back door. Megan let out a wet raspberry in his general direction.  
  
"Ah, young love," Chandler gushed.  
  
"Bite me, Bing."  
  
"I just might. I mean, your butt's right here in my face..."  
  
"No butt biting! No butt biting!" Megan shrieked, beating his back with her fists.  
  
The phone rang, and Chandler jogged for it, bouncing Megan up and down. He grabbed the phone and put it to his ear.  
  
"House of a Thousand Butt-Bites..."  
  
"Chandler?"  
  
"Hey, Neil, sorry. What's up?"  
  
"Chandler, finally. Look. Your father-in-law had a heart attack. I've canceled the next week's worth of signings, and I got you a plane ticket home. Can you be at the Atlanta airport in an hour?"  
  
Chandler lowered Megan to the ground. She stared at him with a look of concern.  
  
"Sure, Neil. I can be there. I'll leave right now."  
  
"Okay, Chandler. I'll call you in a week, see how it's going, okay?"  
  
"Thanks, Neil..."  
  
Chandler hung up the phone.  
  
"Chandler... what's wrong?"  
  
"Jack Geller... that's my wife's dad... had a heart attack. I'm going to New York."  
  
"Oh my god! Do you need me to drive you to the airport?"  
  
"I still have the rental car."  
  
"I'll help you pack."  
  
"Megan, it's your birthday. Go be with the birthday people."  
  
"It's my birthday, and I want to be with *you*."  
  
"Okay, fine. Help me pack. Freak."  
  
"Bigger freak. I'll get your suitcase."  
  
***  
  
Positive.  
  
Monica set the stick down on the countertop, sliding back into the shower... she'd gotten conditioner all over the floor.  
  
This... changed everything.  
  
***  
  
"Well, bye," Megan said, hugging Chandler tight. "I'll miss you. See you... next year, I guess."  
  
He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "I mean it, now. No more cake. Seriously."  
  
He kissed the top of her head, then turned abruptly and headed out to the rental car.  
  
Megan raised her hand in farewell, not dropping it until he drove away.  
  
She made it all the way upstairs to the guest bathroom before she started crying, curling herself into a ball against the bathroom door and pulling down a hand towel to muffle the sounds.  
  
What was she doing? How colossally, incredibly stupid was she?  
  
This was wonderful, just wonderful. Because nothing was a better way to get past being engaged to an emotional vacuum cleaner than falling in love with a *married guy*.  
  
And she *was* in love with him. She couldn't deny that anymore.   
  
But mostly... mostly she just *missed* him. All the time. It seemed like she was constantly looking around for him, wanting to tell him something... like he'd been in the bathroom, for a year.  
  
There was no one she could talk to like she talked to him, no one. Her friends were great, but there wasn't that spark, that sort of click, where she felt comfortable spouting off whatever crazy thing came into her head.  
  
And he was so *sweet*. And so *good*. One of the reasons she *liked* him so much was how faithful he was to his wife... which basically meant she'd never be with him, ever.  
  
And every time he touched her... oh, god. It was like every pore on her skin woke up and started screaming for attention. Even when he'd grabbed her, yanked her down the deck... part of her had been flying, hoping that he'd toss her against the house, press his body into hers, kiss her until her lips bruised and her knees gave out...  
  
She dropped the hand towel, sighing. She was an idiot. He loved his wife, and that was all there was to it. She just needed to get over it, move on, quit being a freak. If she wanted to stay his friend, she was going to have to quit following him around like a puppy dog.  
  
She hung the towel back up, crossed to the sink, and splashed water on her face.  
  
Right. Birthday. Party. She could do this. 


	10. Hide Your Love Away

2005  
  
Chandler walked quickly down the hospital hallway, checking room numbers as he passed, his mind a blur.  
  
He'd reread 'Noon Shadow' on the plane, tucking it inside Keith's notebook... embarrassed to be seen reading his own book.  
  
But Keith had been right, and Chandler had been blind.  
  
He'd written "a poignant and terrifying love letter"... to Megan.  
  
Without even realizing it.  
  
This had gotten out of hand. Way, way, way out of hand. Had he seriously been joking about biting her butt? While his wife was off weeping over her sick father?  
  
"Asshole, asshole, *asshole*," he muttered angrily to himself before stopping short.  
  
Rachel was sitting cross-legged outside Jack's hospital room, Emma sleeping in her lap.  
  
"Hey," he whispered.  
  
"Hey," she smiled back. "Ben's in there now. Ross and Judy went to get some dinner... I think Mon had to pee."  
  
"I figured he'd be in the ICU," Chandler said, setting his duffel bag down and sitting next to Rachel.  
  
"Well, he was. They moved him since he's doing so much better now."  
  
"They... wait. When did this happen?"  
  
Rachel bit her lip. "Um... two days ago."  
  
"Two days..." Chandler began, then lowered his voice. "Two days ago? Seriously? Why didn't anyone call me sooner? I would have been here... god, Monica must have been a wreck!"  
  
"Well, your cellphone was out of range," Rachel said carefully.  
  
"But... I left a message at the apartment... I told her I'd gone up to the house..."  
  
Rachel sighed. "I don't think she got that message, Chandler. She hasn't been home much."  
  
"Damn," Chandler groaned. "I wish I'd known. Is Monica okay?"  
  
No, not really, she's leaving you for Richard. You flew home to get dumped. Welcome back!   
  
Rachel looked into Chandler's eyes and sighed. It felt like betrayal, but she just couldn't tell him. Monica would do that soon enough.  
  
"I think she's okay," Rachel finally said helplessly.  
  
Monica returned from the bathroom, tucking in her shirt, and Rachel felt herself going smaller, preparing for the outburst to come. But Monica just smiled and took Chandler's hand, whispering in his ear.  
  
What the hell?  
  
Monica pulled Chandler down the hall, and Rachel cradled Emma a little tighter.  
  
"Ems... I can't watch," she whispered.  
  
***  
  
"Chandler, I have something to tell you..."  
  
"I have something to tell you too, Mon. I'm really sorry you didn't get my message... you must have been worried sick! I went up to the house for two days... and I can explain why..."  
  
"I know that," Monica smiled. "It's okay."  
  
"It... it is?"  
  
"It doesn't matter," Monica stated. "None of it matters. Chandler... we did it."  
  
"We did... what?"  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
"Oh my god! I thought you couldn't..."  
  
"Well, the odds were really, really low... especially, y'know, with your problem added in to mine. But we... we beat the odds. We did it."  
  
"Wow," Chandler shook his head. "Wow."  
  
"So... we're a family now. And whatever happened before... I think we should just push past it. We have a child to focus on... and I know how we both feel about that. This is bigger than us and the stupid crap we fight about, right?"  
  
Chandler took her hand. "Right."  
  
"We're going to have a great kid. And a great family. We'll just have to... work a little harder. We can do that, right?"  
  
"We can do that."  
  
Monica pulled at his hand gently, smiling a little. "You wanna... go look at the nursery? We're in the hospital anyway and dad's asleep."  
  
"Sure, let's go."  
  
Chandler headed off, but Monica stopped him by the hand.  
  
"Chandler? I just want you to know something."  
  
"What's that, hon?"  
  
"I'm gonna do a really great job at this. You'll see. I'm gonna... work on everything."  
  
Chandler gave her his sweetest smile. "I'm gonna work on everything too, babe."  
  
***  
  
"Hey," Rachel said, sticking her head out the window. "You couldn't sleep either?"  
  
"Not really," Chandler sighed, cracking his back against the brick of the balcony. "I thought I'd come out here for a while."  
  
"Mind if I join you?"  
  
"Not at all." Chandler smiled as Rachel pulled herself through the window. "Kinda makes it feel like Days of Yore."  
  
"Yeah, I miss the Days of Yore, too."  
  
Chandler waited until Rachel had settled herself beside him. "Hey Rach... can I ask you a question? Like, a private, balcony-only question?"  
  
"Sure..." she winced, mentally begging him not to ask her about Richard.  
  
"When you chose between Joey and Ross... how'd you do it?"  
  
Rachel looked out at the lights, hugging her knees to her.  
  
"That was the hardest choice I ever made, you know."  
  
"Yeah, I... kinda guessed... I was just sort of wondering what went through your mind."  
  
"Well, basically... *Emma* was what went through my mind. If it was just me, I... I would have liked to have given things with Joey a chance, at least. But Ross was Emma's father, and if I had a chance to fix that, I had to take it... for Emma. And Ross and I... we make it work, we work hard to make it work."  
  
Chandler watched her face. Rachel sighed.  
  
"I guess the thing is... with Joey, I thought maybe... maybe that could be something I wouldn't have to work so hard at. I don't know if that's good, I mean... maybe I'm just lazy. But Joey and I... we just... *flowed* better than Ross and I do. I liked the person I was with Joey... he made me feel, I don't know. More mellow, more fun. Less uptight, less nervous. It's like... Ross was like caffiene, you know? Made me all hyped-up and twittery. And Joey... well, he was sort of like human Prozac."  
  
She bit her lip. "Everyone teases him about being stupid, right? Well, sometimes... sometimes I think he's the *least* stupid of all of us... when it comes to the stuff that really matters."   
  
Chandler smiled. "I know what you mean."  
  
"It's just... here I was, with this decision. And I knew, I mean, this sounds horrible, please god don't ever repeat this, but... but I knew Joey could handle it and Ross couldn't. I knew Joey would *understand*. You know how he feels about families. And he did, y'know, he was so great, he just backed away, never put me on a guilt trip, was always supportive, even when I knew... I *knew*... that it was hurting him. And Ross, well... you saw Ross... I mean, it didn't matter that he'd been kissing Charlie like, five seconds earlier, he was all flipping out and screaming. It's just... I mean, it's kinda ironic... one of the reasons I picked Ross was because I knew Joey could handle it... but *watching* Joey handle it just made me want him more. Is that crazy?"  
  
"No, I think I'd feel the same way..."  
  
"It's just... Joey is so... Joey. You lived with him, you know what I mean... probably better than anyone. Whenever you're with him, he just... adores you, right? It's like... every time I walked into a room he was in, I just felt this... rush of warmth from him. And Ross, Ross is sweet too, god, he's done so many really, really sweet things, but he's... prickly, you know? Sometimes I get so tired of walking on eggshells. Joey was always... well... if Joey was mad at you, you really did something wrong... you know? Sometimes I'm so frustrated, so angry, trying so hard to keep it in... and I walk in Emma's room, and there's Hugsy, on a chair or something... and I wonder if I did the right thing."  
  
She hugged her knees harder. "But I did. I did do the right thing. Joey's gonna meet some actress, he's gonna forget all about me, he's gonna be really happy."  
  
Chandler found himself almost telling her what Joey had called Megan, but he swallowed it down. Rachel didn't need that... didn't need that at all.  
  
"Do you still think about him? Does it still hurt?"  
  
"You want the truth? I get the feeling you're not gonna like it."  
  
"Yeah, gimme."  
  
"Okay, then... every day. And like hell."  
  
"But you have your family."  
  
"Yes," Rachel said firmly. "I have my family. That's worth it."  
  
"And hey," Rachel added sarcastically, "I mean, living out in Hollywood, surrounded by famous actors, going to movie premieres... how miserable would I have been, huh? It's *way* better that I'm living on campus at Harvard, where I have *so* much in common with *everyone*."  
  
"You hate Boston."  
  
"I don't hate *Boston*. I hate *living* in Boston. God, I just... I just miss you guys so much."  
  
"We miss you too, Rach. It's just... *sucked* since everyone moved away. Do you know there are new people on our couch at the coffeeshop? They're all 'young' and 'hip' and I pretty much want to punch them every time I go in there."  
  
"Chandler?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Were you indirectly asking me for advice?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And did you get any out of what I said?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
Rachel reached over and squeezed his hand. "You're going to be a great daddy."  
  
Chandler swallowed. "I'm gonna do what it takes to be one."   
  
***  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Monica's hand tightened around the receiver. Just hearing his voice made her heart ache.  
  
"Richard... it's Monica."  
  
"Hey, hon."  
  
"Hey," she whispered, pressing her hand up against the glass of the door, watching the raindrops pool on the metal.  
  
"You're calling me from a payphone."  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"So you're back together with Chandler."  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
"Well, that explains a lot."  
  
"Richard... I..."  
  
"Mon... I expected this. It's not like it hasn't happened before. Don't beat yourself up about it."  
  
"Richard... I didn't... I didn't want to hurt you..."  
  
"Monica. Mon. Honey. Congratulations. You're going to be a great mom, I just know it."  
  
"I... I don't know what to say..."  
  
"I think... traditionally... the word most often used in these situations... is 'goodbye'."  
  
"Goodbye, Richard."  
  
"Goodbye, Monica."  
  
Monica hung the receiver up and began sobbing into her hands.  
  
***  
  
Megan walked between the fluffy pastel displays, trying to ignore what was currently violating her eardrums... a crappy, synthesized, Muzak version of "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away", by the Beatles.  
  
"Irony is alive and bleeding in the diaper aisle at Target," she muttered to herself, pulling her purse higher up on her shoulder and plucking a tiny pink hoodie out of a rack.  
  
Somehow, she just couldn't imagine a child of Chandler's wearing fluffy pink with bunnies, but she wasn't sure how well the black "Foolish Mortals, I Will Destroy You All" onesie she'd salivated over at 'Hot Topic' would go over with Monica.  
  
She slid the hoodie back amongst the others, sighing to herself. It had been so much easier picking out things for her friends' babies... she'd basically run through the aisles throwing everything cute or amusing that caught her eye into her buggy on a doped-up estrogen-induced smallness spree.  
  
But this gift... this had to speak volumes. This had to say "I couldn't be more ecstatic about your pregnancy, yet I'm maintaining a polite and disinterested distance!"  
  
And quite frankly, she hadn't found a pair of small socks that said that yet.  
  
"Megan?"  
  
She whirled, hands full of hippo booties, towards the source of the voice. "Hey, Keith."  
  
"Something you're not telling me?"  
  
"I'm picking up something for Chandler's kid," she said, setting the booties down and tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. "Haven't really found anything yet."  
  
"Are they registered here?" Keith asked, leaning against a rack of teeny-weeny sunglasses.  
  
"No... but we don't have any of the stores they're registered *at*."  
  
"What's his wife like? I've never met her."  
  
"She's..."  
  
The luckiest woman on the face of the earth...  
  
"Really pretty," Megan finished.  
  
"Pretty, huh?" Keith said, smiling a little. "That's all I get? Pretty? You usually leak adjectives... you must hate her."  
  
"I don't hate her," Megan said.  
  
"But you don't like her."  
  
"Well, she doesn't like me," Megan snapped, blinking hard and pulling out a small sweater to focus on.   
  
"C'mon," Keith said kindly. "Put the baby stuff down, okay? I'll buy you a cup of coffee."  
  
***  
  
Chandler painted a last white line of primer across the wall of his old study, wiping sweat from his nose with the hem of his t-shirt and examining his handiwork with a hypercritical eye.  
  
Painting a wall was one thing. Painting a wall for a room that would be used by Monica's *baby*... quite another.  
  
Monica had gone to the airport to pick up Keith, who was flying in from Georgia to paint a mural in here. Chandler hadn't had the heart to warn Keith about the pressure he'd be under.  
  
Chandler carefully put the lid back on the primer and picked up a sheet of newsprint to hold under the paintbrush, carrying it to the kitchen sink.  
  
He had to laugh a little as he passed. Their living room had been turned into a shrine to Pottery Barn Kids... it was a damn good thing 'Noon Shadow' was doing so well.  
  
Monica was obsessed, but what had he expected?   
  
He just wished she seemed happier. Not that things weren't better between them... they were, a million times better. Of course, they were both on their best behavior at all times. Monica had thrown herself headlong into baby preparation, nesting with a vengeance, reading a million books on pregnancy, childbirth, and child rearing. Now it was this mural thing... she was determined that everywhere the baby could possibly focus their eyes in the room would be educational.  
  
Chandler rinsed out the brush carefully. He'd always thought Monica was a little crazy to think that having a baby would magically fix everything... but hell, it seemed she was right. Even Jack seemed to get better faster at the prospect of another grandbaby... he was recovering at home with Judy, who'd been considerably nicer to Monica since the news.  
  
And he'd been doing a lot better at not thinking about Megan... or at least, not thinking of her in any terms other than the extremely efficient assistant she'd threatened... and turned out... to be.  
  
He was a dad now. And that meant everything. As much as he loved Charles... he wasn't making the same mistakes. No pool boys, or swim coaches... or redheads... for him, no way.  
  
"Hey, honey!" Monica called cheerfully from the doorway, arm around Keith, who looked a little dazed. Chandler imagined he'd gotten an earful of what Monica's expectations were in the Porsche on the way over.  
  
"Hi, Chandler," Keith said, and Monica poked him in the ribs.  
  
"Tell him your good news, Keith!"  
  
"I'm engaged," Keith said, giving Chandler a strange look.  
  
"To... tell him...!"  
  
"To Megan."   
  
Keith looked almost afraid, like Chandler would spring over and punch him. Chandler crossed the kitchen and shook his hand heartily. "Congratulations, man!"  
  
"I know it's kinda soon... but I really wanted it, I mean... we've been friends so long, it just seemed silly to wait."  
  
"No, it's great!" Chandler cried. "I like you *way* better than that Brent freak."  
  
"Yeah, he is a freak," Keith said, obviously relieved. "Anyway, I brought you guys an invitation... seemed kinda dorky to mail it when I was coming up here anyway."  
  
He pulled it from his backpack and handed it to Monica, who opened it cheerfully. "Well, Keith... we will *definitely* be there. I know Chandler would love to get out in the country again!"  
  
Monica grinned at Chandler. "Well how do you like that, Chandler? Your assistant and your illustrator. You're like Cupid!"  
  
"Actually, I do owe you one," Keith said. "I didn't really get to spend a lot of time with Megan until I started working on the project."  
  
"Well, that's *wonderful*," Chandler gushed. "I mean, that's just *awesome*."  
  
Suddenly, he could hear Rachel's voice in his head. 'Well, isn't that just kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic?'  
  
***  
  
"I still can't believe they registered at Wal-Mart," Monica laughed, reaching over the copy of 'Spiritual Midwifery' propped on her swollen stomach to plump up the bow on Keith and Megan's wedding present. "I mean, seriously, I need to take that girl under my wing. You gotta milk it better than that! What'd we pay for this, seven bucks?"  
  
"Something like that," Chandler said quietly, changing gears on the rental car. "I just don't think Megan's really into china patterns and stuff."  
  
"Where is this church, anyway? We've been driving forever."  
  
"It's not a church. It's a park."  
  
"Oh, outdoors? That's nice." Monica chewed her lip. "I hope there's a place I can pee."  
  
"I'm sure there is." Monica went back to her book, and Chandler turned down a gravel road, passing picnic tables and iron grills before pulling up in a large, chaotic clearing.   
  
The picnic tables had been covered in white tablecloths, but otherwise, the place was a mass of color... children running around shrieking, people laughing and talking, live bluegrass music floating over from a little raised stage.  
  
"That's Megan's dad's band," Chandler said, pointing for Monica.  
  
"Is it a wedding or a hoedown?" Monica laughed.  
  
"Knowing Megan? Probably a little bit of both."  
  
"Hey, you made it!" Keith cried, coming towards them with hand outstretched.   
  
Chandler couldn't help but glance at Monica's face for her reaction. Keith wasn't wearing a tux, or even a suit... just a white dress shirt, open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, and black dress pants above his neon green Doc Martens. Chandler noticed that a discreet bobby pin kept his bangs from flopping. To her credit, Monica merely smiled politely.  
  
Chandler shook Keith's hand heartily, and Keith grinned at them both. "Come say hi to Megan -- she'll be so happy that you made it!"  
  
"We can say hi to her? Isn't she hiding somewhere?" Monica asked.  
  
"She'd miss half the party if she did," Keith laughed, leading them towards the swarming mass of people.  
  
A woman moved towards the teeming buffet, and Chandler got his first glimpse of Megan.  
  
Breathe, dammit, breathe. Monica is *right* next to you. Breathe!  
  
Megan was barefoot, wearing an embroidered white Ao Dai, clutching a can of Diet Coke and laughing at something one of her bridesmaids had said. She leaned down, and Chandler saw the reason... a small girl had approached her, offering up a clover chain.  
  
"Thank you!" Megan said. "It's gorgeous! Put it on my head, okay?"  
  
Megan bowed her head, and the little girl did so, sticking out her tongue in concentration, moving Megan's curls aside studiously to get the placement just perfect.  
  
Megan swooped the little girl up in her arms. "Thanks, sweetie. You know, I knew my outfit was missing something, but I just didn't know what it was."  
  
"I got popsicle on you," the little girl said mournfully.  
  
"Honey, I'm gonna eat *barbecue* in this. Believe me, in twenty minutes, nobody's gonna notice some teeny-weeny-tiny popsicle spot... I'm gonna be red from *here* to *here*."  
  
"You should use your napkin," the girl said solemnly.  
  
"You're right! I should! Very wise."  
  
"Hey, honey," Keith said, kissing her on the cheek. "Chandler and Monica are here."  
  
Megan set the little girl down and ran over to them, bare feet swishing in the grass. "Hey, you guys! I'm so glad you could make it!"  
  
She pointed at Monica's stomach. "Look at you! Big Momma!"  
  
"Hopefully not *too* much bigger," Monica grinned. "I already feel like a whale."  
  
"Then make this lazy bastard do stuff for you," Megan laughed, hitting Chandler lightly on the arm.  
  
"Oh, I already do," Monica smiled.  
  
"Good," Megan said, turning to Chandler for the first time. "Hey, you big lug."  
  
"What's up, midget," he replied, giving her a carefully brief hug.  
  
"When's the ceremony?" Monica asked.  
  
"I guess whenever the minister gets here. He's a little late, but..." she looked past their shoulders. "There he is! Joey, get over here!"  
  
"Joey?" Chandler asked incredulously, spinning around.  
  
"Hey, man!" Joey cried, making his way across the grass in an outfit that could only be described as Neo from the Matrix meets the Chiquita Banana lady.  
  
"You look *awesome*," Megan gushed.  
  
"This weird enough for ya?" Joey grinned, doing a model turn.  
  
"Definitely."   
  
Joey hugged Chandler tight, then Monica more gingerly. "Dude, you're huge," he laughed.  
  
"Shut up," Monica grinned.  
  
"Make the minister do a keg stand!" somebody screamed from across the field.  
  
Joey raised an eyebrow at Megan, and she waved him onwards.  
  
"Okay, so the wedding may be a little later," she laughed, watching him run, his freakish headdress bobbing up and down.  
  
"Keg stands?" Chandler asked.  
  
"Why not? Why do you think I chose a wedding dress with pants underneath?"  
  
"Megan?" Monica asked. "Are there... bathrooms around here?"  
  
Megan pointed Monica towards a low brown building towards the back. "Right by the keg. You know, for efficiency's sake."  
  
Monica waddled off, and Megan turned her attention back to Chandler. "I'm so glad you're here."  
  
"I'm glad I'm here, too," he lied quietly.  
  
Becca sauntered up and tapped Megan on the shoulder. "Hon? They need you to go get into place."  
  
"Oh, okay. Thanks, Becca."  
  
With a last glance at Chandler, Megan ran off.  
  
"So," Becca drawled, blowing a smoke ring. "Is this the shittiest wedding ever or what?"  
  
"I think it's very pretty," Chandler said politely.  
  
Becca snorted. "Right. Do you have any idea how stoned the bride is?"  
  
"Megan's high?"  
  
"Yup. I gave her three Percocet from when I got my wisdom teeth taken out... she's feelin' nothin', right about now."  
  
"Why would you do that?"  
  
"Well... considering that she spent her bachelorette party crying... and this morning crying... but she's too much of a pussy to get herself out of this situation... I thought it might be best."  
  
"What situation?"  
  
Becca stomped on her cigarette butt. "You know, every time I think you're pretty cool, you say something deliberately dense like that. She's in love with *you*, moron."  
  
"But why would she marry..."  
  
Becca seized his left hand, holding it up in front of his face. "Um, three guesses."  
  
"That doesn't mean *she* has to get married."  
  
"She's thirty-five years old, Chandler... with a seventy year old mother who loudly bursts into tears at "I Love My Grandma" t-shirt displays and sticks clippings about increased risk of birth defects in aging mothers into her birthday cards. What do you expect her to do, pine for you in a nunnery? Keith is sweet, he's been her friend forever, *and* he proposed to her in front of about a hundred of their friends and relatives."  
  
"Ouch," Chandler sighed.  
  
"And if you can't... be... with the one you love, honey," Becca sang, "Love the one you're with... love the one you're with..."  
  
"I hate that fucking song," Chandler snapped. "I've always hated that fucking song."  
  
"You don't act like it," Becca snapped right back. "Enjoy the wedding, Chandler. I know I won't."  
  
And with that, Becca stomped off towards the picnic tables.  
  
***  
  
Chandler took a seat on the picnic table bench and put his arm around Monica, watching the dusk fall as people clambered for a place to sit.  
  
I have a great wife. I have a baby on the way. I'm going to be a father. I do not need or want anything else. I'm going through a midlife crisis and that's all it is. All it is. Anything else is just crazy, totally crazy...  
  
And then Megan's father's band changed instruments and struck up "The Imperial March".  
  
Chandler's eyes bulged. He'd forgotten.  
  
"What the...?" Monica whispered.  
  
Megan came walking in between the picnic tables, alone, her clover wreath still perched on her head, carrying a bouquet of the same orange daylilies that grew thickly by the house.  
  
"Ohhh, that's so sweet," Monica breathed in his ear. "Look at her... she's so overwhelmed, she's crying."  
  
"That's really sweet," Chandler replied tonelessly.  
  
Megan met up with Keith in front of Joey, and they held hands and turned towards him.  
  
"I haven't known Megan a long time," Joey began, "And I don't know Keith at all, really. But they asked me to do this, and I'm flattered."  
  
Megan smiled up at Joey.  
  
"As long as I've known Megan, she's always been laughing. Well, once she was naked and unconscious, but that's a whole different story..."  
  
The crowd guffawed, and a few people hooted.  
  
"Anyway, she's always laughing. And that's how I like to think of her and Keith living their lives together. Laughing a lot and having fun. So I'm happy that I'm marryin' them... to each other, I mean... and Megan told me to keep this really short since she couldn't get barbecue on her dress until after the ceremony, so..."  
  
Joey cleared his throat, waiting out the laughter, and proceeded on to the official words. Monica squeezed Chandler's hand.  
  
"I'm glad he didn't say anything about me being naked and unconscious at *our* wedding," she whispered into his ear.  
  
"You may now kiss the bride," Joey declared.  
  
Chandler watched, stomach in knots, as Keith leaned down and gently kissed Megan on the lips.  
  
"FIREWORKS!!!!!" someone screamed, and suddenly, there were explosions going off everywhere.  
  
"Oh my god, this isn't safe," Monica blurted.  
  
"Don't worry," Becca drawled, leaning over the picnic table, "They almost never hit anybody. But still, duck!"  
  
A roman candle went whooshing over Monica's head.  
  
"Chandler, this is insane," Monica breathed, hands going instinctively to her stomach.  
  
"All right, everybody!" Megan's dad said into the microphone. "You know what it's time to do. But go easy on her, okay? That's my baby girl." He cleared his throat and grinned. "Get the bride!"  
  
Chandler's jaw dropped as one guy after another... and several of Megan's 'friends in uniform'... took the opportunity to give Megan juicy smacks on the lips, many of them actually picking her up and passing her to the next person in line.  
  
Keith didn't seem to mind, either... he'd grabbed a cup of beer and was watching the whole thing indulgently, pausing only once to yell out, "Yo, Thomas! No tongue, man! I give you people *one* rule!"  
  
"What the hell are they doing to her?" Monica shouted over the noise.  
  
"It's good luck!" Becca shouted back, jumping off the picnic table and going to stand next to another guest. "Get in line, y'all."  
  
"Oh, I'm not kissing a girl," Monica sputtered.  
  
"It's for *luck*," Becca insisted. "Well, I do it recreationally."  
  
The linebacker-sized man next to Becca passed Megan to her, and Becca grabbed her by the face and planted a passionate kiss on her, shoving her towards Monica.  
  
"Um... hi," Monica said awkwardly, giving Megan a little peck on the cheek. "Chandler, your turn."  
  
Chandler swallowed hard. Megan looked up at him, a little dazed and swaying.  
  
"C'mon, man, hurry up... after this we get cake," the guy next to him said.  
  
Chandler leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against Megan's, before the guy next to him yanked her away and proceeded to violate Keith's one rule pretty much completely.  
  
"That's a... weird tradition," Chandler said lightly, watching Megan get passed towards the buffet table.  
  
"Joey's head must be exploding from all this girl-on-girl action," Monica smiled.  
  
"Nah... I think he's signing autographs."  
  
Sure enough, a circle of people... Chandler spotted Megan's mom among them... were flanking Joey, shoving wedding napkins at him.  
  
Chandler wondered idly if Delores Mitchell, a soap opera freak, had any idea just what her daughter had *done* with 'Dr. Drake Ramoray'.  
  
Perhaps it was best she didn't know.  
  
***  
  
"What number piece of cake is that?" Chandler asked sternly, popping his head up over Megan's shoulder.  
  
"It's number two, thank you very much," she answered primly before smiling and setting her plate aside. "You having fun?"  
  
No, this is probably one of the worst days of my life... but thanks for asking!  
  
"Yeah, sure, this is great. You totally succeeded in your plan."  
  
"Thanks for the music suggestion," she smiled, popping a rosette in her mouth.  
  
"How's the book coming?"  
  
"Slowly. We've mostly been concentrating on moving. You guys are sleeping at the house tonight, right?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"I put new linen sheets on the bed and closed the window. I've also had a dehumidifier running in there for about four days."  
  
"Damn... you don't stop being my assistant for one second, do you?"  
  
"Well, considering the way you *grossly* overpay me, I'd better."  
  
"Where'd you move to?"  
  
"We got a little trailer. We're gonna build a house eventually, but we don't know what we want yet... so we're just gonna save up. It's cute, though, and the light's good, which is important for Keith... and I got my own computer, finally. We've basically turned the den into The Creativity Room."  
  
Somehow, the thought of Megan and Keith cosily cohabitating... her writing, him painting... hurt almost as bad as watching them kiss.  
  
"How long are you going to be in town?"  
  
"Just tonight," Chandler sighed. "Monica has an ultrasound Monday, and she wants to put the baby in one of those private schools with a four-year waiting list, so we have interviews."  
  
"The baby's a *fetus*," Megan choked.  
  
"Which means we're running out of time to get on the list."  
  
"New York is weird," Megan declared.  
  
"You just got married in the middle of a ring of pickup trucks, shooting fireworks at your head... and you think New York is weird?"  
  
"Hey, we don't interview fetuses," she laughed. "Or feti? Which is it?"  
  
"Chandler! Chandler!" Monica cried, running over to him. "Put your hand on my stomach! The baby kicked!"  
  
A nanosecond's worth of pain flashed over Megan's face, and Chandler felt a perverse vindication. He pressed his hand to Monica's stomach. "I can't feel anything."  
  
"Well, maybe it was the barbecue," she sighed disappointedly.   
  
"Hey, you guys," Joey called, striding over to them. "I'm stayin' with you tonight, right?"  
  
"It's a wedding, Joe," Chandler laughed. "Shouldn't you be off in the woods with a bridesmaid by now?"  
  
"I didn't tell you!" Joey said. "I got a girlfriend! She's really cool, she reminds me a lot of..." he paused just long enough for Chandler to realize that 'Rachel' had been the last word in that sentence, "You guys."  
  
Joey perked up, throwing his arms around Monica and Chandler. "You, me, Dick and Yasmine! It'll be almost like old times."  
  
***  
  
Monica lay on the exam table, trying not to wince as her obstetrician spread cold goo across her stomach.  
  
"Yeah, I know... gross, huh?" Dr. Peters said sympathetically. "It'll warm up in just a second, though."  
  
She pressed around with the hand-held plastic thing, frowning a little before rolling back to the machine and messing with knobs.  
  
"Something wrong?" Monica asked, raising herself up on her elbows.  
  
"I'm not getting volume like I should," Dr. Peters said. "Stupid thing." She flipped more switches, turned a few dials.  
  
"Oh, well," she sighed. "Watch the monitor, okay?"  
  
She rolled her stool back and began pressing Monica's stomach again.  
  
"Is that my baby?" Monica asked, pointing at the screen.  
  
"Yes... that's your baby..." Dr. Peters replied... but her voice was strained.  
  
"Wow. Hi, baby!" Monica waved at the monitor. "I'm your mommy!"  
  
"Hang on," the doctor said, "I'm just gonna..."  
  
She hit a button, switching off the overhead television, and stared into her computer screen.  
  
"Awww... I wanna see too!"  
  
"Hang on just a second." The doctor began to push Monica's stomach with her other hand, while pressing down even harder. "Let me just get my..."  
  
She returned with a stethoscope, putting it in her ears and pressing it to Monica's stomach.  
  
"What's wrong?" Monica asked weakly.  
  
"I'm just checking..."  
  
"What's *wrong*?" Monica demanded. "I know something's wrong, so just tell me what it is!"  
  
Dr. Peters folded her stethoscope, staring down at Monica sadly. "I can't detect your baby's heartbeat."  
  
"Well try again!"  
  
"I couldn't detect it with the ultrasound, either."  
  
"It's broken," Monica said weakly.  
  
"Mrs. Bing... the machine isn't broken. Your baby should be considerably bigger than it was at your last appointment, and it's actually... smaller."  
  
"Smaller? How can it be smaller?" Monica's voice broke. "How can it be smaller? Babies don't shrink! Why is my baby shrinking??"  
  
"Oh god, I don't want to tell you this," the woman said, and Monica could see that tears were running down her cheeks as well. "Mrs. Bing... your baby is... decomposing."  
  
Monica jerked upright. "My baby is dead?"  
  
Her obstetrician swallowed hard. "From your ultrasound, I would guess that your baby has been dead for about two weeks."  
  
The woman tried to give her a hug, but Monica sprang back. "I have a... I have a... I have a decomposing *corpse* in me? That I've been reading 'Goodnight Moon' to?"  
  
"Mrs. Bing... this actually happens a lot, especially to women with your condition. Usually, the body expels the fetus immediately, but in some cases... like yours... that doesn't happen."  
  
"I have something dead inside me?" Monica sobbed.  
  
"It isn't safe for it to be in there this long," the doctor continued. "There's a serious risk of infection, honey. We're going to have to get it out... and we're going to have to do it today."  
  
"What are you going to do to me?"  
  
"We're going to do a D&C."  
  
"An abortion?"  
  
"It's the same procedure."  
  
"Oh my god, oh my god," Monica moaned, putting her head in her hands.  
  
"Mrs. Bing? I'm gonna give you some Valium, okay?"  
  
"I don'wannit..."  
  
"Yes you do, hon."  
  
"I need my husband. Can you call my husband?"  
  
"Of course, we'll call him right away. Honey, take these. I swear to God, they'll make you feel better."  
  
"Nothing's gonna make me feel better," Monica moaned, rocking back and forth. "Nothing. Ever."  
  
***  
  
"Monica," Chandler said gently.  
  
Monica was staring off into the parking garage blankly.  
  
"Monica, honey."  
  
She didn't move. She didn't blink.  
  
"Monica... sweetie... I need the car keys."  
  
Chandler finally just lifted her purse off her arm. Monica didn't move an inch.  
  
"Honey... let's go to the car, okay?"  
  
She continued to stare at the concrete zoo of SUV's.  
  
Chandler slung Monica's purse over his own arm and hauled her into his arms, carrying her to the Porsche. He leaned her against the car, folding her awkwardly and getting her into the passenger seat.  
  
He drove for a few blocks in silence. "Mon? Have you eaten at all today?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"I'm gonna get you some food. Could you eat it for me? You think you could do that?"  
  
He double-parked in front of a deli, running in and back out with a sandwich and a can of diet soda. He tried to get Monica to take them, and ended up just placing them in her lap.  
  
He restarted the car, shooting worried glances at his wife. "Honey? Could you at least take a bite? Or maybe drink something? Just a little bit?"  
  
"I can't have this," Monica said dully, knocking the soda can off of her lap and onto the floorboard.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's bad for the baby."  
  
"Monica... you're creeping me out, really really bad. Would you please... *please*... eat something? I don't know what they gave you, but I think maybe it was too strong..."  
  
"Bad for the baby," Monica whispered.  
  
***  
  
Chandler put the bowl of soup onto the tray and picked it up, careful not to spill the milk, which he'd overfilled a little.  
  
"Monica?"  
  
Their bedroom was dark, the air heavy and stale. Chandler nudged a window open with his elbow before setting the tray on the bed.  
  
"Mon? I brought you some soup. Will you please eat it?"  
  
Monica lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, barely blinking.  
  
He reached out, holding her up, and stuck pillows behind her head.  
  
"Mon, you've gotta eat, or I'm going to have to check you back into the hospital."  
  
He reached out, opening her jaw gently with his thumb, then raised a spoonful of soup and placed it in her mouth.  
  
"Monica... swallow it."  
  
She didn't move.  
  
"Monica... please, honey... swallow it. I can't make you swallow it."  
  
Chandler burst into tears, rolling over to the side of the bed and putting his head in his hands. "Jesus. Jesus."  
  
"I saw our baby," Monica said hoarsely, swallowing the soup.  
  
"Drink some milk," Chandler said, raising the glass to her lips. Monica complied, mostly... milk dribbled from her mouth and down her chin. Chandler wiped it with a napkin.  
  
"I saw our baby," Monica repeated.  
  
"Have some more milk."  
  
"They didn't want me to see him, but I saw him anyway."  
  
"Who didn't want you to see it, Mon?"  
  
Monica blinked. "The doctors who took him out of me."  
  
"You... saw it?"  
  
"Him," Monica said, a beatific smile stretching her pale cheeks. "It's a him."  
  
A wave of nausea rolled over Chandler, and he fought to keep himself steady. "Monica... take this pill, honey."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"It's Zoloft, sweetie. Your doctor prescribed it."  
  
"Is it bad for the baby?"  
  
Chandler choked, and forced his voice to normalcy. "Of course not, sweetie. Your doctor wouldn't prescribe it if it it were. It's... it's *good* for the baby."  
  
"Well, if it's good for the baby," Monica said, popping the pill in her mouth and dry-swallowing it.  
  
"How about some soup, Mon?" Chandler said. "You should eat it... for the baby. The baby needs food, you know."  
  
"Babies need food," Monica replied.  
  
"Yes... yes they do."   
  
Monica picked up the spoon and began to eat the soup mechanically. Chandler seized the opportunity and ran into the kitchen, stuffing a frozen dinner into the microwave.  
  
When he returned, Monica had finished her soup and her milk, and was waiting patiently. She'd even folded her napkin neatly.  
  
"This too," Chandler said, sliding the dinner onto the tray. "For the baby."  
  
***  
  
"Knock-knock," Phoebe called softly. "Chandler, are you in there?"  
  
The door was flung open, and Phoebe found herself engulfed in a hug. "Phoebe... I am so, so glad you're here. Oh my god."  
  
"Is she in the bedroom? How's she doing?"  
  
"She's god-awful. I just now got her to eat. She's like a zombie. She doesn't know the baby's dead." He paused. "Pheebs... how'd you know? I haven't called anyone."  
  
"Chandler, go to sleep. You look terrible. I'll take care of Monica for a while."  
  
"I couldn't sleep."  
  
"You will, though. You're exhausted. C'mon, lay down on the couch for a while... just rest your eyes." She pulled him by the wrist over to the couch, forcing him down and pulling the quilt over him. "Just rest your eyes. I'll be back in a minute."  
  
***  
  
"It wasn't just that she was fat, the woman smelled like garbage!"  
  
Chandler's eyes cracked open, and he peered over the couch. Phoebe was at the stove, singing softly to herself, crumbling crackers into a casserole pan.   
  
"Where's Monica?" he asked.  
  
"She's in the shower."  
  
"She is? Jesus, Pheebs. You're a miracle worker... how many weeks was I asleep?"  
  
"The Pheebs have done it all in one night," Phoebe intoned, sliding the pan into the oven. "Okay, I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in about three hours."  
  
"You... wh... Pheebs?"  
  
"Bye," Phoebe said, grabbing her purse and ducking out the front door.  
  
Not five seconds later, Monica emerged from the bathroom in her robe. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, but she looked a million times better.  
  
"Hey, Chandler," she said softly.  
  
"Hey, you," he replied, rolling up into a sitting position. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Like total shit," she replied, sitting down in the armchair. "I need to talk to you."  
  
"God, Monica... you scared me so damn bad! You were... you were crazy last night!"  
  
"I know," she said quietly. "I didn't take it very well."  
  
"Well, that's to be expected... but damn!"  
  
"It was guilt, Chandler," Monica stated.  
  
"Guilt? Mon, you didn't do anything wrong... I mean, you were taking all those vitamins, eating everything you were supposed to... there's no way you could have prevented this!"  
  
"I didn't want to be pregnant."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I didn't want to be pregnant."  
  
"But... Mon... you love babies... you've always wanted babies... you were so upset when we couldn't have the babies..."  
  
"Chandler... just let me talk for a second, okay? I have... a confession." She sighed deeply. "Right before I found out I was pregnant... while you were gone... I was planning on leaving you."  
  
"You were?"  
  
"Yes. For Richard."  
  
She waited breathlessly. Chandler put his head in his hands.  
  
"Oh, Jesus, Monica," he sighed, "I wish you had."  
  
"Megan?" Monica asked sadly.  
  
"I didn't do anything with her, Monica," Chandler said. "I swear to God. But you were right, you were always right... I wanted to. I just couldn't admit it to myself."  
  
"Chandler... do you remember when I said I didn't believe in soulmates, and you said you didn't either?"  
  
"Yeah, I remember."  
  
"I lied."  
  
"I did too."  
  
Monica scooted off the chair and sat next to him. "Are we over?"  
  
"It sure sounds like it, doesn't it?"  
  
"Promise me..." Monica said fiercely. "Promise me you'll always be my friend. I couldn't lose you, Chandler. I would never want that."  
  
"You'll never lose me, Mon," Chandler said, taking her in his arms. "Never. I swear."  
  
"So what now?" she asked, head tucked beneath his chin.  
  
"Now... I guess... I'm going home. And you are, too." 


	11. They Are A Changin'

2008  
  
"Hi Uncle Chandler," Emma sighed, barely looking up from her Game Boy as Chandler slid into the passenger seat. "Let me guess. I'm *so* much bigger than the last time you saw me."  
  
"Well, hey, Emma," he smiled, buckling his seatbelt. "I was just about to say -- did you *shrink*?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," she said curtly, mesmerized in her beeping machine. "Almost forgot what you were like."  
  
Chandler shot a quick look at Ross. "Six years old and already the master of the apathetic deadpan? You *sure* she's not mine?"  
  
"She's the most popular kid in her class," Ross said.  
  
"Yup," Chandler sighed, settling back into his seat. "Not mine." He paused. "You sure she's yours?"  
  
Ross smiled, steering the car out of the airport. "She's all Rachel. Talk to me in ten years when I'm living in hell."  
  
"Whaddya mean?"  
  
"Remember Rachel, dating everything, me going nuts, popping blood vessels? Y'okay, now imagine *me*... being Rachel's *dad*."  
  
"Ohhhh, man," Chandler said, patting Ross on the shoulder. "I'm sorry."  
  
He sat back. "Where *is* Rachel?"  
  
"She's with Monica. I thought we'd go pick them up, eat some lunch. The others said they'd meet us at the restaurant."  
  
Chandler nodded. "How's Monica doing?"  
  
"Not so great. Sorta shell-shocked. She's handling it, though, I think she's..."  
  
Ross trailed off with a quick glance at Emma in the rearview mirror. Chandler didn't need him to finish his sentence, though.  
  
Monica had been through death before.  
  
They drove in relative silence for a while, the steady stream of synthesized music out of Emma's Game Boy the only accompaniment.  
  
"How are you guys doing?" Chandler finally asked.  
  
"We're doing well," Ross said pleasantly. "Rachel got a promotion a few months ago. I'm teaching a few extra subjects that I really enjoy. Ben has a girlfriend now, Emma got picked to play the lead in her play..."  
  
Chandler suppressed a little frown... he hadn't asked for the 'Geller Yeller' version. Maybe he'd try again when Emma wasn't three feet away.  
  
"And you?" Ross said, still sounding like he was at a cocktail party.  
  
"Ah... I'm good, too... mainly trying to keep the studio from screwing my book up too much. They want to 'punch it up', make it more 'zow'. That's actually the word the guy I have to talk to keeps using... 'zow'... which, apparently, translates into 'big cleavage and bigger explosions'."  
  
"Ouch," Ross murmured.  
  
"So yeah, I'm fighting it, but don't be surprised if you and Rachel end up watching yourselves in gratuitous shower scenes."  
  
"That will amuse Rachel."  
  
"I'm glad somebody will be amused. I think it sucks."  
  
Ross eased the minivan into a space in front of Richard's building and turned the engine off. "They'll be down in a second."  
  
Sure enough, the front door jangled, and Monica and Rachel stepped out. Chandler let his jaw drop a little... better to get it over with here, where they couldn't see him.  
  
Monica looked pale and washed-out... he'd expected that. She'd gained a little weight, but it looked good on her... privately, he'd thought she'd been a little too skinny. Still, in jeans and a silk blouse, she looked like the Monica he'd remembered... maybe just a little more formal.  
  
Rachel, however... was *shockingly* frumpy.  
  
It wasn't just that she was pregnant... Rachel had been the height of cool from conception to birth, with Emma. It was... everything else.  
  
He'd never been able to see the resemblance to her mother before, ever... and now it screamed out at him. Rachel had chopped all her hair off into one of those 'easy-care' short layery things that he would forever associate with soccer moms and PTA leaders. Sensible loafers stuck out beneath the sort of baggy, khaki maternity dress that Rachel would have hurled away in horror six years ago.  
  
Rachel's face turned to the light, and Chandler silently rescinded the 'frumpy'... Rachel was, and probably always would be, just too naturally beautiful for that one. But now, she looked... pleasantly attractive. Before, she'd been... exotically stunning. You could throw her into a Gymboree class now and not be able to pick her out.  
  
Rachel looked like the sort of woman who'd own a bathing suit with slimming panels and a little flouncy skirt.  
  
"Hey, you guys," Rachel called, sliding the minivan's huge side door open.  
  
"You want shotgun?" Chandler asked.  
  
"Nah... I like to annoy Emma by staring at her game," Rachel said, sliding into the far seat and putting her head on Emma's shoulder.  
  
"Moooooooom," Emma groaned.  
  
"Hey, Chandler," Monica said softly. Her voice was a little hoarse, and Chandler felt a little gut-stab at the thought of all the crying she'd been doing lately.  
  
"Hey, Mon," he smiled. "You look pretty. I like that shirt."  
  
"All right, guys, let's go... we're gonna be late," Ross said, breaking the moment. "Everybody have their seatbelt on?"  
  
Chandler regarded Ross out of the corner of his eye. Ross Geller, super-dad. Just what he'd always wanted, right down to the minivan.  
  
***  
  
Chandler had to hold in his laughter when they pulled up in front of the Chuck E. Cheese on 48th.  
  
"And the times, they are a changin'," Dylan sang in his head.  
  
A stunning blonde woman ran over to their van excitedly, and it took Chandler a moment to process her as Phoebe. This was his shock over Rachel, only backwards... Phoebe had always looked nice, but she'd never looked like *this*.  
  
Whatever they'd done to her... they'd done a good job. He'd caught her and Mike's music videos, and assumed that she looked that way because of filters and makeup, but he'd been mistaken. Pheebs was the oldest of all of them, but now she looked a good ten years younger. There was someone, someone she was reminding him of, someone he hadn't seen in a while...  
  
Oh yeah. That would be Mom.  
  
"Oh my god, you guys!" Phoebe shrieked, risking her flawless french manicure to wrench the door open. "Yaaaaaaay!"   
  
Phoebe began to hop up and down in shoes clearly not designed for hopping, hands flying everywhere and perfectly highlighted layers flopping.   
  
Apparently stardom had only changed Phoebe's exterior, and Chandler found himself grinning helplessly.  
  
"Where is everybody?" Ross asked.  
  
"They're inside. We may have to take Joey back with a fight, though... he's off playing Skee-Ball with the kids."  
  
They headed inside the noisy restaurant. Mike and Kristen, Joey's wife, were sitting at a large table just outside the play area, supervising Joey and his cluster of small people.  
  
"Can Joey come play with the grown-ups?" Chandler called across the railing, and Joey looked up in delight.  
  
"Dude!" he squealed, leaning down to press his tickets and remaining tokens into his stepdaughter's hand before running over and tackling Chandler in a bear hug.  
  
"Daddy," Emma said firmly, pulling on Ross' sweater.  
  
"Here you go, hon," Ross said, handing her some bills.  
  
Emma ran into the play area, and Joey wrapped his arm around Chandler's shoulders. "C'mon... Mike and Kris got us a table where we can make sure they don't kill themselves."  
  
Chandler shot an uneasy glance at Monica, watching her face. This was an awful lot of children and merriment to get rubbed in her face.  
  
"I should have brought Evan and Caitlyn," she laughed softly, taking a seat next to Joey and reaching for her water glass.  
  
"Who are Evan and Caitlyn, Mon?" Phoebe asked.  
  
"Two of my grandkids. Harry's too little, and the others say Chuck E. Cheese is for 'babies'. Evan and Caitlyn still love it here, though... they'll be pissed that Memaw went without them."  
  
"Grandkids, wow," Joey grinned. "You're waaaay ahead of us."  
  
"Yeah, I skipped right to the ones that I can give back when they wet their pants," Monica smiled.  
  
"Maybe we should have done that, huh?" Mike teased, poking Phoebe in the ribs.  
  
"Hey, you knew twins and triplets ran in my family when you married my ass," Phoebe pointed a breadstick at him menacingly.  
  
"Pheebs likes to get *all* the labor over at once," Mike said, brushing a piece of her hair back fondly.  
  
"I just like my kids to match," Phoebe grinned, biting into her breadstick.  
  
***  
  
Chandler stubbed his cigarette out and walked back inside, stunned all over again by the sheer noise level, the electronic blips, the small screeches of joy and dismay.  
  
"Don't worry, it just starts melding with your brain patterns after a while," Rachel said, coming up behind him.  
  
"That doesn't sound like something I'd enjoy," Chandler laughed.  
  
"Yeah, well, once you start dreaming to the soundtrack of 'Mario Kart', you pretty much surrender yourself to it."  
  
"Rach... are you okay? You've been awfully quiet today."  
  
Rachel smiled a little, hand smoothing over her stomach. "Yeah, I'm all right. Being with Monica this morning kinda took it out of me. She's just... so sad, you know?"  
  
"She seems pretty okay right now..."  
  
"She didn't want to bring everybody down. She was worried about it."  
  
"It's her husband's funeral tomorrow... I think she's allowed!"  
  
"Well, it's also the first time we've all been together in a while."  
  
They walked back over to the table, shooting each other an amused look as two women in a booth talked excitedly about the presence of the Hannigans and the Tribbianis in the restaurant.  
  
"So how are you doing?" Chandler asked.  
  
"Oh, we're good. I got a promotion... Ross is teaching some extra classes that he enjoys..."  
  
"Oh, for god's sake, not the same speech Ross gave me. How are you really doing?"  
  
"Chandler... please don't make me cry in front of an animatronic mouse... it's embarrassing."  
  
His voice dropped. "That bad, huh?"  
  
"Not that bad," she smiled, then fingered the back of her head self-consciously. "You hate my hair."  
  
"I don't... hate your hair..."  
  
"It's totally okay to hate my hair," Rachel sighed. "I hate my hair."  
  
"Why'd you cut it?"  
  
"I went to this faculty party with Ross a few years ago," Rachel sighed, playing with her water glass. "Wearing, you know, my normal stuff. And everyone started saying to him how *sweet* it was that he'd brought his *daughter*."  
  
"Hey, you should have been flattered!"  
  
"Well I woulda been, if they hadn't been so *obviously* horrified when he told them I was his wife... and if they hadn't *stared* at me like I was the... Trailer Trash Whore Of Babylon."  
  
"Aw, Rach, c'mon..."  
  
"No, seriously, okay?" Rachel snapped. "You weren't there, it was horrible."  
  
"I'm sorry, Rachel."  
  
"Well, Ross has this professor friend... Dr. Michaels... and his wife, Nancy, she's really sweet. I was sort of..." Rachel sighed in embarrassment, "... crying, in a coat closet... and she found me, you know, and asked me to lunch the next day. Took me shopping, helped me pick stuff out, took me to her stylist. And he... did this... to my hair."  
  
She let out another sigh, touching her hair gingerly. "Anyway... Ross really liked it... and everyone was so much nicer to me after that..."  
  
Chandler stared at Rachel in dismay. "But Rach... your hair was gorgeous. And you're a *great* dresser. I mean, c'mon, you work at Ralph Lauren, it's not like you're reduced to drooling incompetence at the sight of pants."  
  
"Yeah, but Chandler... you don't *know*, okay? We *live* on campus, we *eat* on campus, I mean, I walk around that place, and Ross... Ross might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says 'I'm With Stupid'."  
  
"You are *not* stupid."  
  
"Well... I *feel* like it. Every day. At least this way I can... blend into the background."  
  
"Rachel... you don't *need* to blend into the *background*! You're awesome."  
  
He reached across the table for her hand as a machine behind them came to life and began blaring. They both jumped, shocked into laughter.  
  
"You know, Chandler... it's funny... I think I read 'Carolina Darkness' about ten times a year."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"It's nice to visit everybody." She ran a fingertip around the rim of her water glass. "It's nice to visit *me*."  
  
Rachel's eyes focused on the play area in the distance, where Joey was holding his stepdaughter by her heels and tickling her tummy unmercifully.  
  
"Rachel... why don't you just ask Ross if you could move off-campus? Get a house of your own... friends of your own."  
  
"He's so *happy*, Chandler. He *loves* it there. I couldn't ask him to do that."  
  
"So what, you're just gonna live the rest of your life trapped in the first half of 'Legally Blonde'?"  
  
Rachel let out a surprised laugh, bending over. "I didn't really think about it that way... maybe I should get a little dog..."  
  
"You don't need a little dog," Chandler spat. "You need some happiness of your own, some friends of your own. You'll wither up and die if you live your life for someone else, Rachel."  
  
Rachel looked at him, a little smile playing over her face. "Chandler Bing," she laughed gently.  
  
"What? What's that supposed to mean? What's so funny?"  
  
"You are. Do you have any idea how much you've changed?"  
  
"We've all changed."  
  
"Yeah, but..." Rachel reached out, touching the grey streaks at the sides of Chandler's hair wistfully. "You know what? I think you did the best job at it."  
  
***  
  
"Monica, c'mon," Phoebe begged. "You should stay at the hotel tonight! We'll all be there! We can have a slumber party."  
  
"There's no room for me, Pheebs," Monica sighed, forcing her lips into a smile as she slid out of the van. "I have stuff I need to do at the house..."  
  
"Of course there's room! Chandler has two beds just like the rest of us. You don't mind bunking in with Monica, do you, Chandler?"  
  
"Of course not," Chandler said. "But Pheebs, I think Monica *wants* to go home."  
  
Monica looked up at her apartment building, up to the two windows that belonged to her and Richard's apartment. It was dark inside, and the curtains hung heavy and limp against the windows.  
  
Another night alone, staring at nothing...  
  
"I'll come with you guys," she said, stepping back into the van.  
  
"Yaaaaaay!" Phoebe and Joey cried in unison.  
  
***  
  
"So, um..." Chandler said awkwardly as they entered the room. "Which, uh, bed do you want?"  
  
"Is this too weird? Should I not have come?"  
  
"Hell no, Mon. None of us wanted you to be alone tonight. I just wanna know where to drop my suitcase."  
  
Monica flopped down on the bed closest to the window, and Chandler set his suitcase on the other one and flipped the latches open.  
  
"I feel so guilty," Monica said, staring at the ceiling.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I'm so happy to see you guys. Because I'm actually having a good time. It feels... disrespectful."  
  
"Do you really think Richard would have wanted you to roll around in sackcloth and ashes? He'd be glad you had friends with you."  
  
He paused, hands in suitcase, wondering if this was the right time. "Um... I brought you something."  
  
He pulled the book out of his case and passed it to her.  
  
"Is this your new book?"  
  
"Open it."  
  
Monica did, her eye falling onto the dedication. "Oh... Chandler..."  
  
She burst into violent tears, setting the book aside and burying her face in her hands. Chandler's face plummeted.  
  
"Oh, dammit... I didn't mean to upset you..."  
  
"You didn't, you didn't, Chandler... it's sweet, it's so sweet. It's just... god... he loved your books so much... I just wish he could see this."  
  
"We all wish he were here, Mon." Chandler sat on the bed beside her, and Monica turned with a sob to wrap her arms around him.  
  
"C'mon," Chandler said soothingly, laying down on the bed and pulling Monica with him, her head snuggling into its old spot on his chest. "Let it out, babe. It's okay."  
  
He rubbed her back gently, and Monica clutched a fistful of his shirt. "I just miss him... oh my god, I miss him... and I don't, I just don't believe he's gone... I mean, I know, I really do know, but I keep turning around and expecting to see him... I think I *do* see him, out of the corner of my eye, and I just... god, Chandler, I screwed it all up so bad!"  
  
"You didn't screw anything up, Mon," Chandler sighed.  
  
"Yes I did! Yes I did! If I hadn't dumped him when I did, we could have had so much longer together... you might have ended up with Megan..."  
  
Chandler stiffened, and Monica raised herself up on an elbow. "I shouldn't have brought that up..."  
  
"No, no, it's okay, I was just surprised. Lay back down."  
  
She did. "How *is* Megan?"  
  
"Still married..."  
  
"Oh Chandler, Chandler, I'm sorry," Monica moaned, burying her face in his neck.  
  
"Mon... it wasn't meant to be, you know?"  
  
She sniffled. "I think it was..."  
  
"Well, maybe it was. I guess that gets filed under 'Tough Shit', though, doesn't it?"  
  
Monica craned her neck up to meet his eyes.  
  
"Chandler... do you ever worry that our whole lives are going to end up in that file?"  
  
***  
  
"Hey, man," Joey said as he opened the door. "Where's Monica?"  
  
"She fell asleep. Where's your brood?"  
  
"Kristen took the kids down to stay at my parents. She's... just not that comfortable hanging out with you guys."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Okay, she's not that comfortable hanging out with Rachel," Joey amended, sitting down on the bed.  
  
"Jesus, Joe... all that stuff happened years ago."  
  
"I know. It's just... me bein' around Rachel pisses Kris off. We actually got into it a little, y'know, before she left... I mean, not bad, 'cause the kids were here, but... you know when you're talkin' to someone, and nothin' you're actually sayin' is all that bad... but you walk out of it wanting to cry anyway?"  
  
"Oh, yeah."  
  
"It was one of those. She said I 'couldn't stop looking at her the whole night'. Which I woulda been more pissed off about, y'know, if it hadn't been true."  
  
"Oh," Chandler said softly.   
  
Joey flung himself onto his back. "I just wonder, y'know? I mean, how much longer is this gonna take? How many more years until I forget about her? I keep goin' through these milestones, you know? And at each one, I keep thinkin... this is it, this is gonna be the thing that gets Rachel outta my mind. And it never happens."  
  
"You love your wife, though..."  
  
"Honestly? Not that much, man. You know I thought Mary was mine when I married her, right?"  
  
"Wow, Joe... no, no I didn't."  
  
"Well, it wasn't exactly the kinda thing I wanted to take out a bulletin board in Times Square about, right? I just wonder, though... I mean, sometimes I just feel like she's riding me as far as I'll go."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, her first husband... Ashley and Brian's dad. He was a director, got her the first roles she ever had. And then there was Derek, everybody knows about him... and now me... and I just kinda wonder who's next, you know? I love her kids and god, they've had so many dads already..."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"And you know... sometimes I look at her outta the corner of my eye, when we're at a party or somethin'... and she's just scannin' the room. Like the Terminator, y'know? Wheels in her head clicking. You know what it makes me think about?"  
  
"What."  
  
"That party on the roof. You know, all these soap guys there, really hot -- I mean, most of them were gay, but whatever -- and Rachel just wanted me. Just me."  
  
"She's married," Chandler pointed out needlessly.  
  
"I know, dude. Believe me. I know. And she loves Ross. I mean, me and Rachel, we were like... five minutes. They're a lifetime."  
  
Joey sighed. "I mean... they're lobsters."  
  
Joey sat up, grinning at Chandler. "How about us, huh? Two famous guys pinin' over married chicks. How sad are we?"  
  
"Pretty sad, Joe," Chandler grinned back, laying down across the other bed.  
  
"You ever tell Megan how you feel?"  
  
"Keith's my friend and my illustrator. How could I do that to him?"  
  
"You think she knows?"  
  
"Maybe. I don't think so, though. I've been really careful."  
  
"You seen anybody else?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Not even to..."   
  
"Nope."  
  
"You haven't had sex in three years?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Joey raised himself up on an elbow, shaking his head. "Damn. You know what this means, right?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"We are so crackin' into that minibar."  
  
***  
  
Chandler opened the door to his room unsteadily, aiming for his pocket twice before successfully putting the key back into it.  
  
"Where were you?" Monica's voice asked from the darkness.  
  
"With Joey... I thought you were asleep."  
  
"I was. Are you drunk?"  
  
"I'm soooper-drunk." He tried to set his wallet on the nightstand, and it fell to the carpet with a soft thump.  
  
"Oh, god," Monica sighed, clicking on the light. "C'mere."  
  
Chandler crashed face-down on his bed, and Monica pulled his shoes and socks off.  
  
"C'mon, flip over, I'm taking off your pants."  
  
"I like my pants. They feel nice on my legs."  
  
"Chandler, you can't sleep in your pants. Roll over."  
  
"Cantoosleepinmypants."  
  
Monica groaned, hefting him over, and attacked his belt buckle.  
  
"Sssh, you'll wake it up."  
  
"I'm not even touching it... or I wouldn't be, if you'd quit squirming."  
  
"Squirm," Chandler said happily. "That's such a *bitchin'* word."  
  
"I... can't... believe..." Monica huffed, yanking off his pants a few inches at a time, "I... was... telling... Rachel... how... mature... you'd... become."  
  
She overestimated the force of her last yank and ended up falling on her butt on the floor, holding his pants.  
  
"I'm drunk... and yet you are the one falling down," Chandler noticed, enunciating carefully.  
  
"Do you want me to beat you with these pants?"  
  
"I'm not afraid of you..."  
  
Monica leapt up and began whapping Chandler with his khakis. Chandler giggled and held up his arms, and she crawled onto the bed, straddling him and whipping the cuffs at his head.  
  
"No more! No more!" Chandler shrieked, grabbing Monica by the wrists and forcing her down on the bed.  
  
They lay there, panting, staring at each other, heat building.  
  
"Sorry," Chandler said awkwardly, rolling off of her. "Got a little out of hand there."  
  
"Yeah," she said briskly, brushing her hair back into place with her hands. "Sorry about that."  
  
"You're... you're still on my bed."  
  
"So I am, so I am," Monica quickly hopped over to her bed. "Well, goodnight then."  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
Monica turned out the light and they lay on their backs in the darkness, struggling to get their breath under control.  
  
***  
  
Monica groped for the ringing phone, wrestling it to her ear. "Hello?"  
  
Silence for a moment. "Um... is this Chandler Bing's room?"  
  
A woman... crying, by the sound of it. "Yes, it is... is it really important? If it is, I can wake him up... we were asleep."  
  
"Um... no. No thank you. That's okay. Don't wake him up. It's not important. I'm sorry I woke you up."  
  
"Um... it *sounds* important. Do you want me to take a message?"  
  
"No message. Thanks, Monica."  
  
Dial tone. Monica hung up the phone, rolling back underneath the covers with a yawn, falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.  
  
***  
  
"Hey, man," Ross called, pushing the sliding glass doors to the Gellers' back porch open. "Whatcha doing out here?"  
  
"Ah... just needed some fresh air," Chandler said, quickly sliding his cigarette pack into his suit pants.  
  
"Uh-huh," Ross said dubiously. "*Smells* fresh."  
  
"How you doing?"  
  
"Well, it's a funeral," Ross smiled. "Not really doin' cartwheels."  
  
"I meant in general. And please -- not the faculty party version."  
  
Ross' face slid for a moment, then rearranged itself. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."  
  
"Sure. I believe that." Chandler tapped ashes into Mrs. Geller's hydrangea bushes.  
  
"I have everything I've wanted since the ninth grade," Ross said. "Why wouldn't I be fine? I'm spectacular."  
  
"You know," Chandler said, looking out at the back garden, "When I was in ninth grade, I wanted to be a fighter pilot."  
  
Ross shot him a confused look. "Okaaay..."  
  
"Yeah, I really did. I wanted the cool shades, y'know, to be the master of the sky, hang around with tough fighter-pilot guys, have Tom Cruise's hair."  
  
"I'm glad we're sharing..."  
  
"I would have been a shitty fighter pilot."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Yeah, I would have been total crap at it. I mean, assuming I quit throwing up long enough to land the plane. But I didn't know myself back then, y'know? I only knew what looked neat."  
  
"What are you trying to say?" Ross' voice glistened with frost.  
  
"Nothing." Chandler put his cigarette out on his shoe and stuck the butt in his pocket. "Just rambling."  
  
"Not everything is like one of your books, Chandler." Ross leaned against the railing. "I mean, you have your little fantasy-world, and that works for you, and that's great, man... I'm happy for you. Pining artistically's your thing, and you're good at it."  
  
  
  
Chandler's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Real relationships take compromise... compromise and work. Not everything is... doin' it in rainstorms, okay? I mean, do people have to have sex in a rainstorm in *every* book you write?"  
  
"Are you criticising me, or my love scenes?"  
  
"I'm just defending myself, that's all. Defending my *life*. Since you seem to be looking down on it from your lofty romantic pinnacle of... sainted celibacy."  
  
"Joey talks too much," Chandler muttered.  
  
"Get over her, man," Ross said flatly. "She's married. You have to respect that. That's the most important thing. It's been *years*, Chandler... and you're getting *old*. Find someone else, be happy."  
  
"I'll find someone else."  
  
"Good...!"  
  
"When I find someone else who makes me feel the way she does. Because no one else does, Ross. And now that I've felt that way... I'm not settling for anything else."  
  
"You have to let go first. It doesn't work that way."  
  
"Who are you to talk about letting go? C'mon, Ross, listen to yourself. Look at who you married!"  
  
"I'm going inside."  
  
"Ross, wait..."  
  
"No, man, I'm going inside. I'm not getting into a fight at my brother-in-law's funeral, okay?"  
  
The sliding glass door shut, and Chandler turned away, shaking his head. 


	12. Here's Looking At You, Kid

2008  
  
Megan stepped out on the back porch, watching the rain beat mercilessly on her fading tomato plants, thinking about New York. Thinking about Chandler Bing. Thinking about Monica Geller.  
  
Thinking about Monica Geller in Chandler Bing's hotel room.  
  
She popped the top off her beer against the railing in one deft -- if a little more violent than entirely necessary -- motion.  
  
She had no right to be jealous. No right.   
  
She pushed at her wedding ring with her thumb, relieving the pressure there. Her ring wasn't too small, not at all... it just felt that way. Some days it felt like it was cutting off the circulation in her entire body... every part of her atrophing from lack of blood flow.  
  
She lit a cigarette and sighed.  
  
She and Chandler had built this porch together, one sunny June afternoon. The whole porch thing had been Keith's idea to begin with... he'd bought the lumber, bought the screens, bought the paint... and then the whole pile had leaned against the trailer for a year.  
  
It had been one of the best days of her life. Sweaty and nasty and slapping at mosquitoes, laughing her ass off as Chandler had switched from imitating Bob Vila to Christopher Lowell, overwhelmed with the pleasure of being with him, of creating something with him.  
  
There was something in the way they worked together that called to her, took her over... a rhythm they fell into, an effortless synchronization between them that was weirdly and powerfully erotic. One purpose, one mind, two parts of a whole.  
  
The majority of the sex she'd had in her life didn't do to her insides what handing Chandler Bing a two-by-four did.  
  
And that day... with the heat making every part of her body slide against the rest, with him ripping off his t-shirt and tossing it on the woodpile, with his sweaty locks of hair curving elegantly over his brow... she'd been lost.  
  
She'd dropped a piece of plywood, and he'd caught it... arms coming up from either side, holding it away from her face, trapping her in the circle of his arms, her back pressed to his bare chest, the haze of him all around her, the smell of him thick in her brain.  
  
And he'd bent his face to her neck, and inhaled deeply before gently moving the plywood away.  
  
It was those moments that confused her, those moments when their eyes would meet over a stack of work, those moments when she'd look up from editing and catch him watching her, his face soft and dreaming. She'd been telling herself for years that there was nothing there... that it was all her, her overactive imagination seeing what it wanted to see... but her body disagreed.  
  
Her body *really* disagreed.  
  
The screen door banged, but Megan didn't turn around.  
  
"I'm home," Keith said. She heard the jangle of his car keys, thrown onto their picnic table.  
  
"How was your meeting?"  
  
"Good. Really good. They're very interested."  
  
Keith waited, watching the rigid triangles of Megan's shoulderblades through her dress. She inhaled, exhaled. Strings of blue smoke wrapped themselves around her.  
  
Keith picked at a flake of paint on their doorframe. "You're not going to say anything?"  
  
"I said everything I had to say last night."  
  
"Look, Megan... he's a great guy, but we don't owe him the rest of our lives."  
  
"Your life, Keith. *Your* life. I'm not the one who wants to move." She flicked ashes angrily in the general direction of the tray.  
  
"Baby, we can't *stay* here. It's fine for Chandler... he built a career for himself in New York *before* he came here. We're not going to get anywhere living a million miles from anything... and you know it."  
  
"My parents are here. My life is here."  
  
"You mean *he's* here."  
  
Megan rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to have this discussion again."  
  
"Well, that's great," Keith muttered, dropping into a deck chair. "Let's just fight about everything else, like we always do, and pretend *he's* not what we're really arguing about."  
  
"He's what *you're* arguing about, Keith. What has he ever done to you?"  
  
"You mean, besides casting me as Paul Henreid for the rest of my damned life?"  
  
"You're not Paul Henreid."  
  
"I'm not stupid, either."  
  
Violence caught at her heart for a moment... a blind, red urge to rip her ring off and whip it at his forehead. She took a deep breath.  
  
"Screw it," Keith muttered, pushing his chair back and slamming through the back door.  
  
Megan relaxed a little, sighing deeply. Keith didn't know... couldn't realize... and of course, she'd never tell him... that he owed his marriage to Chandler Bing in more ways than he imagined. Not just because Chandler had thrown them together... or because Chandler had depressed her to the point of some seriously flawed matrimonial decision making.  
  
Being around Chandler put enough romance into Megan's life that she could stand being married to Keith.  
  
And that was the horrible truth.  
  
***  
  
Chandler ducked into the Geller's guest bathroom, fumbling for his cellphone in his suit pocket. Monica had finally remembered his wee-hours phone call.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hey, Keith... it's Chandler."  
  
"Hey, man."  
  
"Monica said I got a call from you guys this morning. Everything okay down there?"  
  
"I didn't call... it must have been Megan."  
  
"Yeah, that's what Monica thought... she said she sounded kinda upset?"  
  
"Ohhhh, okay. Yeah, she *was* kinda upset this morning."  
  
"Anything I can do to help?"  
  
"Not really, man... but thanks. She's just a little bummed out because we're moving to California."  
  
Chandler's knees gave out, and he sat down on the toilet lid with a heavy thump. "You're... you're what?"  
  
"I got this awesome job offer, man. Don't worry, I'll still be able to do your stuff, no problem."  
  
"W-when are you leaving?"  
  
"Right away. ASAP, man."  
  
"Can I speak to Megan?"  
  
"She's not here... she went out for bubblewrap."  
  
"Ah, okay, well... tell her I said hi. I'm sort of in a bathroom at a wake, so I gotta go."  
  
"Okay, Chandler... take care."  
  
Dial tone. Chandler slammed the cellphone into the tile, feeling a deep and violent pleasure as it crunched beneath his dress shoe.  
  
"Chandler, are you okay in there?"  
  
"Fine, Rach, just... dropped my cellphone."  
  
"Well hurry up, okay? Pregnant people out here havin' to pee."  
  
Right. Chandler shoved the broken plastic into his pants pocket and held the door open for Rachel, forcing a smile across his face. "All yours."  
  
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, but Chandler shut the bathroom door against her look of sympathy.  
  
California. *Cali-friggin-fornia*.  
  
First Joey, and now Megan? What was that state, some sort of happiness vacuum?  
  
He was suddenly slammed against the wall, the plastic shards in his pocket digging painfully into his hip.  
  
"Sorry... sorry..." Monica cried frantically.  
  
"Mon?"  
  
"Chandler... get me out of here. Get me out of here, *please*.  
  
I'm going crazy, and my mom... my mom is making it so much worse... you are about to watch me sob into pate, I swear to God..."  
  
"Do you want me to get everybody else?"  
  
"They won't fit in the Porsche. Please. You drive. I couldn't drive right now." She pressed her keys into his palm, gazing up at him beseechingly.  
  
"You have your coat?"  
  
"Got mine, got yours, got everything... let's go."  
  
***  
  
"You can smoke, if you want to," Monica said softly as Chandler pulled up the parking brake.  
  
Chandler's eyebrows shot skyward. "In the *Porsche*?"  
  
"Of course not in the Porsche," Monica laughed. "I'm traumatized, I didn't have a brain transplant. I meant we could get out of the car."  
  
Chandler opened his door and jogged around to open Monica's. "Where is this place, anyway?"  
  
"Ross and I used to have a treehouse here, when we were kids," Monica smiled, wrapping her arms around her and looking out at the trees. "It was the cleanest, most organized fort *ever*."  
  
"I can imagine."   
  
Monica shivered, and Chandler wrapped his arm around her. She nestled into the warmth of him, pressing her face against the warm wool of his coat.  
  
"There's still a little bit of the house up there," Monica said, pointing up a tree trunk. "You wanna go up?"  
  
Chandler eyed the decades-old platform. "Is it safe?"  
  
"Tonight? I don't care," Monica declared, grabbing a piece of wood nailed into the tree trunk and hoisting herself up.  
  
"Ooookay," Chandler said nervously, following her lead. He reached the end of the makeshift ladder and hauled himself onto the platform. "Ohhh -- splinter in my ass, splinter in my *ass*."  
  
"Lots of stars," Monica sighed.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Monica turned to face him, pale face floating above her black mourner's dress. "You okay? You've been really quiet."  
  
"I just got some news."  
  
"What news?"  
  
"I don't want to whine, Mon. Not tonight."  
  
"C'mon. Take my mind off it. What news?"  
  
"Megan and Keith are moving to California."  
  
"Oh," Monica whispered.  
  
"Yeah. Pretty much."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"Do you... do you have any other friends down there?"  
  
"I know people."  
  
"That's not the same thing."  
  
"Yeah. It's not."  
  
Monica reached out, stroked his sleeve. "You'll always have us, you know."  
  
"I know... and believe me, that makes it better. It's just... I'm gonna be really, really lonely."  
  
"Me too," Monica replied.  
  
He reached out, and she went into his arms, reaching up with her hand to touch his cheek.  
  
"Mon, it's just..."  
  
And her lips were on his, warm and sweet, a memory, a habit. Her fingers curled into his hair, her other hand gripping his arm like she was drowning.  
  
Which, he supposed, she was.  
  
He hadn't realized how lonely his body had been, how starved for warmth and human contact. He sank into the kiss, leaning back against the sagging platform, his body moving into an old, familiar dance.  
  
"Mon..."  
  
She stopped him with another kiss, and he shook his head, putting space in between them. He took her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from his belt buckle.  
  
"Mon... I think tomorrow... you'd be really unhappy about this."  
  
"I'm so... cold, Chandler. Inside."  
  
He raised her hands and kissed them. "This wouldn't warm you up. Not where you really needed it."  
  
"I want him back, Chandler. This isn't fair. It's not *fair*."  
  
"You're right... it's not."  
  
"I don't want to be alone."  
  
"I don't want to be alone, either... but Mon, we don't *work*. We *know* that we don't work."  
  
"People change."  
  
"We should go back to the hotel."  
  
"Chandler... just... tell me you'll think about it. I know I'm screwed up right now... not thinking straight... and maybe tomorrow, I'll wake up and think 'God, what was I thinking?'..."  
  
"Flattering," Chandler coughed.  
  
Monica laughed. "You're welcome. But all the same... tonight... I think I'd feel better."  
  
"I will think about it," Chandler said.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Okay... so... I have even more splinters in my ass now... can we go?"  
  
Monica smiled. "Yeah. We can go."  
  
***  
  
"Did you remember your toothbrush?" Monica asked, pushing the restaurant door open.  
  
"Mon, it's not that difficult. I just put everything into the suitcase that I took out of it."  
  
"Sorry," she mumbled, gnawing at her thumbnail.  
  
"Look. Do you want me to stay a few extra days? It would be no big deal."  
  
"No, no, go home, it's good. Go home. I can't camp out in the Marriott forever, I have to go back to the apartment eventually."  
  
"Yeah," Chandler said, eyes glinting. "Just think about how... *dusty* it must be getting..."  
  
Monica hit him lightly. "Don't do that to me!"  
  
"Hey, guys!" Phoebe called, motioning them over to a table.   
  
Chandler set his suitcase down and slid into the booth. "Where's Joey?"  
  
"Dunno, he hasn't come down yet," Ross said around a mouthful of eggs. "Not like him to miss a buffet."  
  
"Looks like you're making up for him," Monica noticed, watching Ross quickly shovel bacon onto a slice of toast.  
  
"Gotta take off in fifteen," Ross sighed. "I have a conference upstate."  
  
"You must be *very* excited," Mike drawled to Rachel.  
  
"Not going, actually," Rachel replied, rubbing her stomach. "Gonna go home and incubate. I'm starting leave early, and Emma's staying with the Gellers this weekend... I've got a hot date with Calgon and Cosmopolitan."  
  
"Don't forget the Wives' Luncheon on Thursday," Ross reminded her, gulping orange juice.  
  
"Oh, how could I forget. And *that*, I am *very* excited about. Woo-hoo," Rachel drawled.  
  
"Give them a chance," Ross snapped. "They'd like you if you just put forth an *effort*."  
  
The others looked around the table nervously, finding themselves sucked into what was apparently a very old discussion.   
  
Rachel just sighed and touched her napkin. "Sure. Okay. I'll try."  
  
"Thank you," Ross sighed, rubbing her back for a moment before tossing his napkin onto the table. "Gotta run, guys."  
  
He chair-hugged all around, lingering on Monica. "Love you, sis. Call me if you need me."  
  
She patted his hand. "Thanks."  
  
"We should actually go too, if we want to make our plane," Mike said. "Mon, you need a ride home?"  
  
"I have the car," Monica said. "I'll walk you guys out, though."  
  
Another flurry of hugs, and Chandler and Rachel found themselves sitting alone at a table for nine.  
  
"So what was that?" Rachel asked curiously, biting off a bit of bacon.  
  
"What was what?"  
  
"Monica, all whispery in your ear when she left. Is something going on?"  
  
"No. Kinda. I dunno."  
  
"What about Megan?"  
  
"She's moving to California with her *husband*, so..."  
  
"That's interesting."  
  
"Oh, is that what we're calling gut-wrenching pain now?"  
  
"Joey's here," Rachel replied.  
  
He wasn't sure if that was an answer to his question or not.  
  
"Hey, man," Chandler said as Joey dropped his duffel bag with a thump. "Better grab a plate, the buffet's almost over."  
  
"I'm not hungry."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I'm sorry I'm late. I was on the phone, with my grandma." Joey stole a piece of Rachel's bacon and pointed it at Chandler. "Can I come and stay with you for a while?"  
  
"Of course you can, Joe -- what the hell's going on?"  
  
  
  
"Megan's still a notary public, right?"  
  
"Um, the answer to your bizarre question would be 'yes', why?"  
  
"Got some divorce papers for her to stamp," Joey spat, crunching into the bacon angrily. 


	13. Kiss To Build A Dream On

2008  
  
"What??" Chandler and Rachel demanded simultaneously.  
  
"Yeah. It's over. Big-time." Joey reached for Rachel's toast, and she pushed the entire plate in front of him.   
  
"Joey... what... when did this happen?"  
  
Joey grabbed the ketchup and began dumping it over Rachel's eggs. "This morning... kinda... only the whole thing's been screwed up from the beginning. I shoulda known."  
  
"You're... really calm," Rachel stammered.  
  
"Believe me," Joey chuckled bitterly through a mouthful of eggs, "Nothin' I could do to her is as bad as what my grandma's probably doin' to her right now."  
  
"Your... grandma?"  
  
"Oh yeah! My grandma's the one that *caught* her. Remember what I told you, about her spittin' on Mussolini's body? Yeah, well, Mussolini didn't cheat on her only grandson, okay?"  
  
"She cheated on you?"  
  
"Has been for years, I guess. Actually called the guy from my parent's house. There's never *been* a conversation on that phone that my Grandma wasn't listening in on."  
  
"Joey, I'm sorry," Rachel sighed, squeezing his hand.  
  
Joey gazed unhappily at his plate. "I'm sorry for her *kids*. I really liked 'em, you know?"  
  
They sat in silence for a moment, Joey's face falling farther and farther.  
  
"Hey, Joe," Chandler began. "Y'know, my railing's getting pretty rotten... I was gonna replace it... we could see if we could knock it down with rocks first."  
  
"Yeah?" Joey replied, a little light coming into his eyes.  
  
"And I'm done with 'Lowdown' now. We could just hang out, y'know. Order pizza. Play Cups. Rent 'Baywatch' on DVD, watch 'em run in even slower motion..."  
  
"He-ey," Joey nodded appreciatively.  
  
"Tide's down now," Chandler continued, "I mean, the whole beach is just beggin' to have holes dug in it..."  
  
"I wanna come," Rachel burst out.  
  
"I thought you had a date with Calgon," Chandler said, eyebrows raising.  
  
"Screw Calgon! I wanna throw rocks at stuff!"  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yes! C'mon, please?"  
  
"You don't have to ask, Rachel... I just didn't think you'd *want* to..."  
  
"Oh, yeah, sure, okay," Rachel drawled. "Let's see. Weekend on the water with my best friends... or the Wives' Luncheon. How will I ever decide... how will I ever deci-i-i-de..."  
  
"Pick the weekend!" Joey begged.  
  
Rachel grinned over at him, and Chandler watched in awe as five years fell off her face. "Okay... I think I will."  
  
***  
  
"Ross, I'm not even in my third trimester yet! I'm *totally* allowed to fly." Rachel twisted the phone cord around her finger. "No, I haven't eaten anything 'gas-producing'!"  
  
She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Ross wants to know if Monica's going."  
  
"We could ask her..."  
  
"Ross says it'd be good to get her mind off things."  
  
"Chaperone," Joey coughed underneath his breath.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said that's a great idea, I'll call her."  
  
***  
  
"They're fake," Rachel insisted.  
  
"They're real!" Joey cried indignantly.  
  
"They're totally fake, Joey, you can see the scars!"  
  
"That's not where I'm lookin'," Joey laughed.  
  
"Well, look! Right underneath. They're bouncing too much, hang on, I'll pause it. See? *Totally* fake."  
  
Chandler looked up from the stove as the front door opened and Megan stepped through, her bag of cleaning supplies banging noisily against her hip.  
  
"You're watching porn and you didn't invite me?" she laughed. "I'm hurt. I'm really and truly hurt."  
  
"*I'm* innocently making spaghetti," Chandler protested. "It's the Perversons over there you need to blame."  
  
"Megan, get over here," Rachel insisted. "Tell Joey those boobs are fake."  
  
Megan crossed behind the couch and squinted. "Oh yeah. Totally fake. You can see the scars."  
  
"You people ruin everything," Joey pouted.  
  
Megan ruffled Joey's hair affectionately. "When did you guys get into town?"  
  
"Thursday," Rachel said, muting the porn and gesturing to it with the remote. "You know, I thought I'd spend a weekend exposing my unborn child to all that was great about our culture."  
  
"Since Thursday?" Megan repeated softly, eyes searching out Chandler's.  
  
Chandler fought down guilt at the wounded look that flew across Megan's face. "We didn't want to bother you. Figured you'd be busy *packing*."  
  
Her eyes flashed pain again, and he kicked himself inwardly. He hadn't meant to say it like that. Joey and Rachel's eyes darted between them.  
  
"Keith said you... said you'd gone out for bubble wrap."  
  
"*Did* he," Megan spat, hands curling tighter around a bottle of Pine-Sol.  
  
"Hey, hey, Chandler, why don't you... why don't you let us handle dinner," Rachel said hurriedly, giving Joey a meaningful glance.  
  
"Yeah, leave spaghetti to the Italians," Joey blurted, leaping up from the couch and taking Chandler's spoon. "We'll get this."  
  
Chandler jerked his head to indicate the porch, and Megan followed him out, waiting until he'd shut the door behind them.  
  
"I did not, I did not *fucking* 'go out for bubble wrap'," Megan hissed, crossing her arms.  
  
"Okay... okay," Chandler held his hands up. "You didn't go out for bubble wrap! What's going on?"  
  
"Keith! Keith is going on. Keith is going on, and on, and on, and on..."  
  
"Talk to me."  
  
"Well, I... I haven't wanted to. He's your illustrator, he's my husband, I didn't want to... I didn't want to be that kind of woman that goes around badmouthing their husband everywhere they go, you know? But I... I'm going crazy, Chandler... he is driving me up the *wall*."  
  
She kicked the railing, and it sagged four inches.  
  
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"  
  
"Don't worry about it, we're knocking it down with rocks tomorrow... you were saying?"  
  
"You are?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So... could I kick it some more? That felt *really* good."  
  
Chandler laughed. "Kick it into the lake, I wanna see it."  
  
"Freaking... whiny... crybaby... blame-hurling... wimp-ass!" Megan cried, kicking the railing violently with the sole of her sneaker.  
  
The railing sailed off the deck and landed on the rocks below.  
  
Chandler turned to her with a grin. "'Wimp-ass'?"  
  
"So I can't kick and think at the same time."  
  
"I'll remember that."  
  
"It's me," Megan muttered, pacing the deck. "I mean, I know that now. It's me. It's gotta be. Cause I'm not pretty enough, or sexy enough, or whatever, to get, like, normal guys. No-no. Instead I get these guys who are looking for a wet nurse, someone to kiss their boo-boos and tell them how tew-wibble it is that the whole world's in a conspiracy against them... and apparently I give off this surrogate mommy pheromone, and they're all attracted by the smell of my blood or something..."  
  
Chandler lit a cigarette and passed it to her.  
  
"Thank you. Thank you. See? That's you. You're awesome, you're so awesome. Guys like you... I'm just a friend, la la la, little asexual Megan, oh, she's like my little sister. But oh, the flaming *martyrs* of the world, the ones who come with their own crucifix *playset* that they can make bitter pronouncements from... oh those, those are like moths to flaaaame!"  
  
She took an angry drag and regarded Chandler. "You're laughing at me. That's points off, you know."  
  
"I'm not laughing at you."  
  
"You're not."  
  
"I'm laughing at the ludicrous, completely absurd notion of you not being pretty or sexy enough. You're the sexiest girl I've ever met."  
  
"See?" she cried. "And you always know *exactly* what to say. Now I feel better, dammit, and I wasn't ready to."  
  
"No-no, you have me confused with someone else. I'm Chandler Bing. I always say the *wrong* thing."  
  
"Not to me," Megan said, wiping at her eyes. "Not to me, Chandler."  
  
"Hey, hey," Chandler whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "Don't cry, Leia. Don't cry."  
  
"I *didn't* go out for bubble wrap," she breathed into his chest.  
  
"Hey, I know. I know."  
  
"I don't want to move. I don't want to leave. Why would I want to go to California? It's sunny all the time! I'd hate it."  
  
"It has to rain there sometimes."  
  
"Sometimes isn't the same. And you wouldn't be there."  
  
"Aw, you know you're sick of me."  
  
"No, I'm not, Chandler. I could never be. You don't know, okay? You don't know how many times I've come over here, how many times I've been so dried-out, so drained, from listening to Keith and his endless, endless self-created problems, that he doesn't really want to fix, and all the people that piss him off, and all the things he thinks are wrong with the world, and blah blah blah... and you make me laugh, and you make me think, and you just... recharge my battery. If I didn't have you, I'd be that... dead battery in the back of the junk drawer, okay?"  
  
He brushed a piece of hair off her forehead. "Is it that bad?"  
  
"It's not that bad," Megan muttered, stepping back and leaning on the remaining railing. "I mean, he doesn't beat me, or cheat on me, or anything. He's nice to me, he loves me a lot. I shouldn't complain, I really shouldn't, I mean..."  
  
"Megan, you've listened to me complain a million times. Start whining or I'll send you where the railing went."  
  
"That's just it! I don't want to whine, I don't want to *do* that when I'm so mad at him about it..."  
  
"So don't whine. *Explain*. That's different, right?"  
  
"It's just... you know what he hates? Really hates? I mean, bitches about every time he sees one?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Daylilies."  
  
"How can you hate daylilies?"  
  
"I don't know! He says they're 'common'. He hates *summer*. It's too *hot*. He hates *winter*. It's too *cold*. He hates *small children*. He hates people who drink flavored coffee, he hates people who listen to pop music, it's just... so much freaking *hate*, you know?"  
  
Chandler passed her another cigarette.  
  
"Thanks. And nothing, nothing, *nothing* is ever *his* fault... it's all part of some conspiracy thing *personally* directed at *him*. Everybody's in on it, you know? Waiters, sales clerks, every corporation known to man, the government... oh god, don't even get him started on the government..."  
  
"Oh, don't worry, I've heard that one," Chandler smiled.  
  
"So you know. And he's always mad at me, says I'm not 'romantic'. But his idea of romantic... is buying stuff, just endless amounts of stupid stuff. And I don't want *stuff*, you know? It's not my thing. My thing, I mean... my idea of romance, you know... it's just different, it's different. Like a month or two ago, I decided to surprise him, right? Lit all these candles, made this awesome dinner. And the minute he walked in, he got mad at me and turned all the lights on. Said he couldn't see his food properly. So there we are, having this non-candlelit dinner under bright florescent bulbs. Y'know, with gratuitous flames. Like the food was dangerous and hard to *navigate* or something. And while we were eating, he talked about his *hemorroids*."  
  
Chandler coughed violently, leaning over, smoke streaming from his nose.  
  
"I hear about his hemorroids a *lot*," Megan sighed.  
  
"Yeah, I..." Chandler sputtered for breath, "Don't think they usually put that on the Hallmark cards..."  
  
"About a year ago, I was writing this love scene," Megan continued, looking out at the water. "I needed the hero to cross a room and kiss the heroine... who wasn't expecting it... passionately. But I couldn't get the logistics down, right? Where she'd have to be, what he'd have to do, so that they wouldn't end up smacking noses or cracking heads. So I say, hey Keith, help me act this out, work this out."  
  
She tapped ashes over the railing. "And he couldn't. He absolutely could *not* do it. He's just not the grab-and-kiss-passionately type, you know? He has to arrange and plan and adjust and discuss. And I realized... he's *never* kissed me passionately. And for that matter, I've never been kissed the way I want to be kissed."  
  
Megan closed her eyes, her neck arching, lips curling around every word. "I want to be... I want to be *grabbed*, you know? Hurled against a wall. Kissed until my lips bruise. Drown in wanting someone. Knock things over. Scream someone's name while I rake my fingernails down their back..."  
  
Chandler's fingers dug into the wood, his spine rigid, sheer willpower keeping him frozen in place.  
  
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.  
  
Megan exhaled, eyelids opening. "And I'm married, to someone I'll never have that with. And I'm getting *old*. And I just wonder... what if I never experience that? What if I just get older and older, pouring my dreams out into my keyboard, giving my characters what I want and can't have? And then I die?"  
  
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.  
  
Megan's face turned towards his, curiousity turning to shock... then hope. She took a tentative step towards him.  
  
"Hey, Megan," Monica mumbled sleepily, sliding the glass door open. "When did you get here? I've been sleeping like the dead."  
  
"Hey, Monica," Megan replied, her voice light. "How are you doing?"  
  
"I've been better," Monica smiled, running her fingers through her hair. Megan couldn't help but notice with a pang how gorgeous she looked in Chandler's old flannel shirt and socks. "I guess you heard about Richard."  
  
"Yes, I did. I'm sorry."  
  
The air hung heavy between the three of them, and Megan let out a nervous little laugh. "Wow... if I'd known you were here, I wouldn't have bothered to bring my cleaning stuff."  
  
"Yeah, I've been sort of... compulsively scrubbing," Monica chuckled. "You may not have to clean for a while, but you might want to refinish everything."  
  
"Well, Chandler's going to have to handle that..."  
  
"Oh, right... you're moving. Hey, if you need *any* help packing, let me know!"  
  
"Well, I've... I've spent enough of Chandler's time whining," Megan said casually. "I should take off."  
  
"It was nice to see you again!"  
  
"Nice to see you, too."  
  
Megan waved to Chandler and Monica and power-walked up the dock, launching herself into the safety of her Beetle and throwing her bag into the passenger seat.  
  
"If you need any help *packing*, oh do let me *know*," she sing-songed aloud, turning the key and throwing it into first. The antique Volkswagen growled in annoyance.  
  
"I know, baby. I'm sorry. But I have to get out of here," Megan muttered.  
  
God. Was that some kind of *record* for self-ass-making? Not realizing Monica was there... dragging Chandler off to whine, whine, whine... had she actually told him about Keith's *hemorroids*, for God's sake? And then practically thrown herself at him with that horrible, stupid monologue?  
  
And then she'd almost kissed him. God. Right in front of Monica! How could she have misread him so badly? Looking at his face, she could have sworn he...  
  
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot," she cried, banging the steering wheel with her hand.  
  
*Married* idiot. How many ways could one person suck?  
  
The image of Monica in Chandler's shirt stuck in her mind, took it over, wiped out all other attempts at brain activity. She'd looked so casual... so comfortable... so right at home. Like she belonged.  
  
"And I don't," Megan whispered. "I just don't."  
  
The final notes of "Four Sticks" ended as Megan fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes.  
  
"Made up my mind... to make a new start... goin' to California with an achin'... in my hea-art..." Robert Plant wailed, and Megan ejected the tape forcefully.  
  
She'd had a crush on Chandler for what... three decades? Compared every guy she'd ever dated to him. Made her poor husband frantically jealous over him. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
  
She wiped tears from her eyes roughly with her wrists. She had to go home. She had packing to do.  
  
She pushed the cassette back into the player and began to sing along.  
  
***  
  
"Can't you sleep?" Rachel asked, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she stumbled down the stairs.  
  
"Not really," Joey groaned, leaning back on the couch. "Was just killin' off the wine. I'd offer you some, but... can I get you some milk or somethin'?"  
  
Rachel smiled. "How drunk are you?"  
  
"Not nearly enough. Kristen called again." He peeled back the wine label miserably. "This time, she put the kids on the phone. Made them beg me to come home."  
  
"Oh my god," Rachel said in horror.  
  
"Yeah. So I've been basically just feelin' like the world's biggest asshole, you know."  
  
"Joey... honey... you're not an asshole."  
  
"You didn't hear 'em, Rach. It was awful." His voice broke, and he turned his face away from her.  
  
"Joey, don't... Joey, come here," Rachel whispered, sitting down next to him and drawing his head down to her chest. "Honey... honey..."  
  
She stroked his hair as Joey sobbed.  
  
"I just wanted... I just wish... I wish I could have what you and Ross have."  
  
"No, you don't, honey."  
  
He met her eyes. "Sure I do. You've got the perfect kid, the perfect life..."  
  
"You can't really think that."  
  
"I *have* to think that, Rach. Any other kind of thinkin', and I'd just go nuts. You're a family." He laid a hand on her stomach. "Soon to be a bigger family."  
  
Their eyes locked, and Rachel let her hand drift up to his cheek. Joey removed it and placed it back by her side.  
  
"Um... whaddya doin?"  
  
"Joey... I love you."  
  
He sighed and pushed himself back from her on the couch. "I love you too, Rach. But would you still love me if I were the kind of guy who hit on his best friend's pregnant wife?"  
  
"Yes," she whispered.  
  
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Joey smiled, taking her hand. "Look, we should go to bed. Tomorrow's rock-throwin' day."  
  
"Can I sleep on the couch with you?"  
  
"I think that's a really, really bad idea. Go to bed, Rach."  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. So sorry for tonight, so sorry for everything..."  
  
"Don't be sorry, Rach. You have nothin' to be sorry for. Just go to bed... cause if you keep sittin' there, lookin' like that, I'm gonna do bad things. So go."  
  
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "My hair is hideous. I look like a whale. Don't."  
  
"You're beautiful when you're pregnant, Rach. You're beautiful all the time. You're like this... dream that's always out of my reach. Go to bed before I reach for it and hate myself forever."  
  
Rachel got up and climbed the stairs slowly. Joey watched her go before lying down and pulling the blanket over himself.  
  
"Dammit," he whispered into his pillow. "Dammit." 


	14. Hog The Destruction

2008  
  
"Okay... on the count of three. One... two... three!"  
  
Four rocks sailed out and smacked soundly into a piece of railing, sending it crashing five feet out from the deck.  
  
"Okay, that was more rotten than I thought, or we have some serious rage issues," Chandler joked, then trailed off at the looks of focused, nearly demented determination on his friends' faces.  
  
"Obviously the latter..." he muttered, picking up another rock.  
  
"Y'know what? Let's not go on three. Let's just *go*," Rachel spat, hurling another rock at a piece farther up from them. It connected solidly, and the railing lurched southward.  
  
"Since when can you throw?" Joey laughed.  
  
"You don't know *everything* about me, Joseph Tribbiani," Rachel replied, sending off another deadly missile.  
  
"Ooooo-kaaaay," Joey whistled, holding up his hands defensively.  
  
"Hey, don't hog the destruction," Monica muttered.  
  
"I'm not hogging. Jump right in..."  
  
Chandler watched in awe as sweet Joey, prissy Rachel, and oh-no-this-game-needs-rules Monica proceeded to chaotically decimate the south side of his deck.  
  
"Play nicely, children," he tried, but they weren't hearing him.  
  
What the hell had happened last night?  
  
"Do you have a baseball bat?" Rachel interrupted.  
  
"I have a... fireplace poker..."  
  
"Perfect." Rachel stalked inside and returned with the entire fireplace tool set, which she, Monica, and Joey immediately split between them and began beating the railing with mercilessly.  
  
Monica beating something to death with a little broom... it was like his worst nightmare from his Married Days.  
  
"This one won't go down," Monica said, pointing at a joist accusingly.  
  
"Yeah, I super-glued them together last winter," Chandler apologized. "It was cold! Hammers get slippery."  
  
"I like a challenge," Monica growled, raising her ash-broom menacingly.  
  
"And I think I like the *inside* of the house," Chandler blurted, reaching for the handle of the sliding-glass door.  
  
A yell, a thump, and Chandler turned around to find Rachel and Joey staring over the side of the railing, wearing identical expressions of horrified surprise.  
  
"I'm okay!" Monica's voice rang out from below them.  
  
He jogged over to the edge. Monica was sprawled out on the swampy ground below, picking herself up gingerly.  
  
"Seriously, guys, I'm okay. I think I took a little skin off my hand, that's all." She stood up and took a step forward. "Oh... not okay, not okay!"  
  
"What's wrong, Mon?"  
  
"Ankle... *really* sucking... ow!"  
  
Chandler vaulted down to the ground, saying a small prayer of thanks that Monica had fallen off the short end of the deck.   
  
"Hang on, Mon." He swung her up into her arms. "I gotcha."  
  
"I think maybe it's just sprained..."  
  
"We'll take a look. C'mon."  
  
He carried her to the living room couch, Joey and Rachel following nervously, and pulled up the leg of her jeans.  
  
"That's a bad sprain," Joey said authoritatively.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Okay... when the makeup artists made something into a bad sprain, *that's* what it looked like."  
  
"Does this hurt?" Chandler asked, bending her foot back gently.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"How about this?" he rotated it a few centimeters.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"How about..."  
  
"Okay, we've *established* that it *hurts*, stop torturing me!"  
  
"Yeah, okay," Chandler said, pulling her pants leg down gently over her rapidly swelling ankle. "Hospital time."  
  
***  
  
Joey pushed the Emergency Room door open gently, careful not to spill his tiny cup of coffee.  
  
"Oh, for god's sake, Ross! It's not like I *pushed* her off the deck!"  
  
Rachel was over by a stand of trees, yelling into her cellphone. At the other end of the parking lot, Chandler was carefully downwind, sucking cigarettes so fast he might as well have smoked a few at once.  
  
The kinda cool thing was, they were pacing in unison.  
  
"One... two... three... and turn," Joey whispered. "One... two... three.. and turn..."  
  
"I was not in any 'danger', Ross! *Monica's* the one who decided to climb on the other side and *yank*! I was... yes, I was throwing rocks! No, I do not 'get a kick' out of 'endangering the life of our unborn child'!!"  
  
Sooo... emotional hellhole, or deadly nicotine cloud?   
  
He walked towards Chandler. His lungs would heal.  
  
"It was *not* Joey's idea! Fine, it was *my* idea! Because I didn't realize she was going to do that! I'm not psychic! Well, maybe you *should* have married Phoebe!"  
  
"Fun conversation," Chandler muttered, lighting a new cigarette off the still-lit butt of the one before.  
  
"Oh yeah. Sounds *real* fun."  
  
"Ross! Ross! Will you... I am not! I am *not*! She's *fine*, Ross, it... but it *didn't* happen! I'm not her mother, Ross! For god sakes no, I wouldn't have let Emma do it, what kind of mother do you think I... shut up! Shut up!"  
  
"So, uh, how you like the... um, what teams are down here?" Joey asked nervously.  
  
"For what sport?" Chandler exhaled.  
  
"Pick one."  
  
"Ross, will you just... because it was fun, Ross! Fun! Remember that? That thing we used to have, before we moved off to Boring Land to live amongst the Boringtons?"  
  
"Uh-oh," Joey muttered.  
  
"There's the Falcons," Chandler blurted. "The Braves... um, the Oilers..."  
  
"The Titans..."  
  
"Whatever..."  
  
"Don't you hang up on me! Don't you..." Rachel let out a little scream and threw her cellphone violently against the pavement.  
  
"That's two cellphones in a week," Chandler noticed. "Verizon is *lovin'* our angst."  
  
***  
  
"Okay, Mrs. Burke," the doctor said, entering Monica's room with his arm full of folders. "It's not as bad as we thought it might be. You've sprained it, and stretched a few ligaments. Let me put your X-Rays up for you..."  
  
He switched on the lightboard and pulled black transparencies out of the folder. "Just as a note, though... always, *always* tell the attendant that you're pregnant before you have X-Rays done, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, okay," Monica mumbled, a second before her head shot up. "What?"  
  
"Oh, don't worry," the doctor said. "It's just a precautionary thing."  
  
"No... um... what?"  
  
"'What' about which part?"  
  
"The... uh... pregnant part...?"  
  
The corners of the doctor's mouth twitched. "You... uh... didn't know?"  
  
"I *can't* be pregnant."  
  
"I'm afraid you are... is that a bad thing?"  
  
"Wh... how... how far along... when... what?"  
  
"It just showed up on your intake bloodwork... can't really tell from that. Would you like to schedule an appointment with one of our obstetricians?"  
  
"Do you have a... heartbeat thing? An ultrasound?"  
  
"I don't think a fall like that would hurt the baby, as early as this is..."  
  
"You... don't... understand, okay? If you have that stuff, you have to do it to me, *now*."   
  
"Your insurance might not..." he broke off at his first exposure to Monica's I Want Something Face. "Um, I'll call the nurse."  
  
***  
  
"Hey, little jumpy," the nurse cooed, gazing at the screen and turning to smile at Monica. "Looks like your baby's using your uterine walls for a trampoline."  
  
"The baby's moving..."  
  
"Honey, *that* baby's leading an aerobics class! Hang on, let me push on you a little, get Baby Burke there to slow down and say hi to Mommy, okay?"  
  
"No-no," Monica burst out, stopping the nurse's hand. "Let it move."  
  
"Let him move," she whispered, tears falling down her face.  
  
"Let me turn up the volume," the nurse grinned, twisting a knob and filling the room with the sound of drums.  
  
"It's so fast," Monica said nervously.  
  
"It's *supposed* to be that fast. That there's a big healthy baby-heart running like a racehorse."  
  
"Thank you," Monica sobbed. "Thank you..."  
  
***  
  
"You look pretty stoked for a girl on crutches," Chandler joked, tossing his magazine aside as Monica hobbled into the waiting room.  
  
He stopped, taking in her tear-stained face, her radiant smile. "Monica? Did something happen?"  
  
"Yeah, it did," she choked. "It finally, finally did." 


	15. As I Lay Dying

2008  
  
"Are you sure this is necessary?" Chandler asked, downshifting and watching Monica out of the corner of his eye. "I mean, the three of us can take care of you... help you get stuff..."  
  
"I appreciate it, Chandler," Monica smiled, rubbing her new Aircast, "But I want to go home. Your house has all those stairs... that deck is so slippery..."  
  
"... you want to start decorating the nursery..."  
  
Monica laughed. "Okay, you know me too well."  
  
Chandler tapped the steering wheel lightly, working up his courage. "And what about... what about later? Won't you need someone later?"  
  
"I'll always be sorry Richard missed this, Chandler. But I think he'll be with me, you know? I think that now more than ever. And hey, look at it this way... I get to *totally* run my own baby-show. Make all the decisions, pick *everything* out, no compromises... it's like Monica's Ultimate Thing, run Monica's Ultimate Way."  
  
Chandler chuckled. "At least until the kid can talk."  
  
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Monica grinned, putting her hand over his. "Seriously, Chandler... don't worry about me. I've never been in a better place to do this. I'm doing fine financially, I own my own apartment, I can afford to take the time off work."  
  
Chandler kept his smile at low wattage, careful not to let his overwhelming relief show. "Well, if you need anything... call me."  
  
He pulled in front of the airport, waiting in line for the drop-off area.  
  
"Actually... there is one thing I would like."  
  
"Anything."  
  
"Can I keep this?" she held up a photo. "I swiped it from that box you have. Don't worry, it's a double."  
  
Chandler held out his hand, and Monica slid the photo into it. He held it up to the light.  
  
Him and Megan, during a particularly violent game of Drunken Scrabble. Becca had taken this one, he remembered... he and Megan were on the couch, him pinning her down, her attempting to shove Scrabble tiles up his nostrils, both of them laughing to the point of tears.  
  
"You... of course you can have it, but... why do you want this?"  
  
"You don't look this happy in any of my pictures," Monica said simply, taking the photograph back and sliding it into her purse before grabbing up her crutches and reaching for the door handle. "Thanks for everything, Chandler."  
  
***  
  
Rachel hit her "power" button repeatedly, a low growl of frustration coming out from between her lips.  
  
Joey leaned over from the other side of the cab's backseat. "Don't hit me, Rach, but I think you killed it."  
  
"Wonderful," she snapped. "Breaking a $300 cellphone during my temper tantrum... that's going to cheer Ross up, totally." She grabbed the window knob and cranked the window down. "I was really *hoping* to give him some more *ammunition*."  
  
She launched the broken cellphone out the window, watching it curve in a graceful arc over the guardrail and out towards the lake.  
  
"Rach, that's *littering*," Joey protested.  
  
"Oh, yeah? Well then, watch *this*," Rachel spat, snatching off her wedding ring and holding it up to the window.  
  
Joey closed his hand over hers, wrapping hers tightly around the ring and pulling it away from the wind. "Rach. You'd never forgive yourself. C'mon, put this back on." He slid the wedding ring back onto her finger.  
  
"Do that again."  
  
He ignored her. "This isn't Ross' grandmother's ring, is it?"  
  
"No, he..." she leaned her head against the vinyl and looked out the window. "He didn't want to marry me with a ring I'd agreed to marry you with."  
  
"Understandable," Joey said, fighting the wince and settling back into his own side of the seat.  
  
Rachel twirled her wedding ring around her finger, staring into her lap. "You know... I snuck up on Emma the other day. I'd made brownies, actual edible brownies, you know? For a surprise. And she was in her room, playing with her Barbie dolls."  
  
Joey nodded in confusion, watching the reflected light play against Rachel's profile.  
  
"She had Barbie and Ken... in a fight, you know? And Barbie was whining and whining and whining, and Ken was getting mad and stomping around and calling Barbie names. But when Skipper came down the stairs of the dreamhouse, Barbie and Ken pretended everything was fine."  
  
Joey reached out and touched Rachel's hand lightly.  
  
"And suddenly, suddenly... *I* could remember doing that. *My* Barbies, *my* dream house. You know, my parents stayed married for so long, Joey... and I was so upset when they got divorced, even as old as I was. But sometimes I wonder... what would my life have been like if they were happy and apart? You know, my mom's with Michael now, they're so awesome together... and Cindy's a way better fit with my dad. What if I'd had two happy places to be a kid... instead of one miserable mooshed-together one?"  
  
She played with the lock on the door. "Ben's Barbies *never* fought."  
  
Joey took her hand, squeezed it.  
  
"It's just... sometimes I wonder if Emma is all that Ross sees in me now. If he married me to make sure he would always get to be around her. He went through so much, never getting to see Ben, y'know?"  
  
"That's not it, Rach. Ross loves you." Joey moved a piece of Rachel's bangs back from her forehead.  
  
"I *know* he loves me, Joey. But I think, sometimes... I think he loves me like we all love each other. I mean... if I had to marry Chandler, or you had to marry Mon... you know we could do it, we've been friends for years, there's love, real love there. But that's not how Ross and I used to feel about each other."  
  
She swallowed hard, looking into Joey's eyes. "And it's not how I feel about you."  
  
"It's not how I feel about you either, Rach," Joey whispered. "But okay -- say everything you just said is true. How much would Ross hate us for taking his children away?"  
  
"But..."  
  
"And would you be okay with giving him custody? I don't think so."  
  
"I know," Rachel whispered.  
  
"So there ya go."  
  
"There I go," she sighed, her engagement ring tapping against the window as she stared out at the cornfields.  
  
***  
  
"He's *really* sweet," Megan begged, arms full of ginger cat. "He does the cutest thing... he'll climb up when you're reading and bite your nose..."  
  
The elderly couple recoiled, and Megan realized she'd made a tactical error. "Not hard, I mean... it's cute... um, how about a dog? Snoozer makes a wonderful companion, he's *really* loving, he..."  
  
"You know, when we read in the paper that you were giving away twenty animals, we thought it was a misprint," the old lady said, looking around the dirt yard in distaste. "Whyever do you have so many?"  
  
"They found me," Megan said helplessly.  
  
"Do any of them have papers?" the man queried, examining Snoozer like a particularly offensive store display.  
  
Yes, asshole, they crawled up to my house with their dog show trophies in their mouths!   
  
Megan took a deep breath. "No sir. But I am a vet tech, and I can vouch for the excellent health and personality of every animal."  
  
"A vet tech," the woman said pointedly. "In other words, not a real vet."  
  
"No, ma'am. Not a real vet."  
  
"We were hoping for something a *little* more... pedigreed."  
  
For free? In the paper? On *this* side of town? Megan felt her Irish rising and struggled to force it back down.  
  
The woman shrieked, and Megan whirled. Raquel had run out onto the stairs and was regarding the visitors with her typical mischevious eye-glint.  
  
"There's a raccoon, there's a raccoon on your stairs!"  
  
"Yes. That's Raquel."  
  
"Horrid, filthy creatures."  
  
"You know what?" Megan burst out. "None of the animals are up for adoption. I've just decided, I'm keeping them all."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"That's right. These are very special animals, they deserve very special treatment, and quite frankly..." Megan drew herself up to her full 4'10", "... I was hoping for owners a *little* more... pedigreed."  
  
"Well!" the woman gasped, herding her husband towards the car.  
  
Megan watched them go, sinking down onto the stairs and giving Snoozer a hug. "I didn't want you living with those pompous pricks anyway."  
  
Snoozer howled in appreciation for her concern.  
  
Megan kicked her "Various Loving Animals -- Free To Good Home" sign with the corner of her shoe. She'd been at this since seven a.m., and only managed to give away two kittens.   
  
Not that she'd *wanted* to give away Rosencrantz and Goldenstern, but at least the little girl and her parents had seemed nice.  
  
The screen door banged. "So what was wrong with *those* two?" Keith drawled. "Looked at 'em funny? Twitchy eyes?"  
  
"Shut up, Keith," Megan said flatly, gathering Tabitha into her arms.  
  
"Megan, you have to be realistic, honey. You could have given them all away by noon if you weren't being so friggin' picky. How many have you gotten rid of?"  
  
Gotten rid of. Oh God, she could punch him right now.  
  
"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern."  
  
"Somebody *took* the Inbred Duo?"  
  
"Don't *call* them that!"  
  
Keith leaned against the railing. "What's in the folder?"  
  
"Joey's divorce papers. I'm notarizing them for him."  
  
"And let me guess. Even though he's a super-rich movie star, you're not charging him."  
  
"Joey's always been very nice to me."  
  
"Uh-uh. I've heard about how 'nice' he was to you."  
  
"That was years ago, Keith."  
  
"We're not moving to California with the traveling cast of 'Babe', Megan. Get rid of them by tomorrow, or they're going to the pound."  
  
Slam.  
  
Megan gritted her teeth and opened Joey's folder, flipping through the results of his "Do It Yourself Divorce Kit". She seriously needed to replace her black ink cartridge before...  
  
You. Are not. Chandler's assistant. Anymore.  
  
She scrawled her name blurrily across the line, reaching next to her for her embossing stamp.  
  
"You're free, Joey," she whispered, pressing down on the metal handle. "I wish like hell I was."  
  
"Excuse me, miss? I'd like to adopt a raccoon... preferably one that likes to chew cable wire and knock over my beer bottles?"  
  
Her head snapped up. "Chandler?"  
  
"Yeah, could I also get, um, about seven dogs? Oh, and eleven cats, and a parrot, and a one-eyed gerbil named 'Mad Moody'?"  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm interested in your various loving animals. I have a *very* good home."  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"I just dropped Mon off at the airport, and I thought I'd stop by. You do know I'll take any of these guys you can't find a home for, right?"  
  
"You'd do that?"  
  
You dropped Monica off at the airport?  
  
"Of course -- you took care of my poultry! I have to rebuild the deck railings anyway, I thought I'd build up the bank a little bit, make a fenced-in thing."  
  
Tears sprang to her eyes. "Chandler... I... I don't know what to say..."  
  
"Shove it, Snoozer," Chandler laughed, gently moving Snoozer off the stair next to Megan and taking his place. "So I have some awesome news."  
  
"I could use some awesome news."  
  
"Monica's pregnant."  
  
Megan's hands quit working completely, and the entire stack of Tribbiani vs. Tribbiani went flying down the stairs. She leapt up and began gathering them, grateful for the excuse to avoid Chandler's gaze.  
  
"Well, that's great! That's wonderful! Are you guys gonna, are you guys gonna get married again?"  
  
"No, I was gonna offer, but..."  
  
Megan dropped every paper she'd managed to collect.  
  
"... she really wants to raise Richard's kid all by herself, you know? The Monica Way."  
  
"Richard's kid."  
  
"Yeah, Richard's..." he paused. "Oh god, Meg, you didn't think it was mine?"  
  
"I did, a little."  
  
He laughed, hopping up to help her pick up paper. "I heard a rumor that sex was required for that."  
  
The papers flew again. Chandler lunged for them, laughing.  
  
"Anyway, you should have seen her. She just found out today -- she fell off the deck, I didn't tell you that, we've been at the E.R. all morning. That's where they told her. And she immediately wanted to go back to New York and start decorating... that's Monica for you, right? It's a lucky thing the airline lost her luggage on the way down, I don't think she would have let me go back to the house for it. I took her straight from the hospital."  
  
"The airline lost her luggage?"  
  
"Yeah, she's had to wear my clothes all week. I think she was bummed she didn't get to unpack, though. Monica *loooooves* to pack. I think she likes it better than sex, which doesn't say a hell of a lot for me, but... it's too bad you couldn't take her up on her offer to help you pack, seriously, you'd have the whole house color-coded and labeled in like, five minutes."  
  
He looked up, blushing a little. "I'm rambling, I'm sorry, I... what's wrong?"  
  
"I'm an idiot."  
  
"No you're not... we took that I.Q. test on the Internet, remember? Together we are a genius."  
  
"I just... misunderstood a bunch of stuff. I'm a dork."  
  
"You're a cute dork. C'mon, put the depressing sign away and I'll take you to Waffle House."  
  
"Why, Mr. Bing," Megan drawled, putting her hand to her chest.  
  
"Yeah, I know, I like to go all out. You wanna see if Keith wants to go?"  
  
"No," Megan said flatly.  
  
"Oooo-kay then," Chandler laughed awkwardly. "You don't have to make up your mind right away, take your time..."  
  
  
  
"Get me outta here and buy me a Waffle."  
  
"Your wish is my command," Chandler replied, gesturing gallantly towards his truck.  
  
***  
  
"I'm gonna miss this," Chandler said, pulling the menu out of its holder.  
  
"I'm gonna miss this, too."  
  
"You know what we should do? For old time's sake?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Come up with an evil plot."  
  
"Oooh, we're *good* at evil plots. We just suck at execution."  
  
"Yeah, well, you're sort of woefully un-evil."  
  
"Yeah, well, *you* never bought the laser cannon."  
  
"True, true. Okay, you ready? It's a doozy."  
  
Megan laughed. "You sure it's not a humdinger?"  
  
"It might just be at that. Hang on, I've got to put on my..." he dropped two octaves, "Plotting Voice. Come, let's hide stealthily behind our menus."  
  
***  
  
"This spells trouble for Operation Pet Evacuation," Chandler smiled, turning on his windshield wipers.  
  
"I don't care. It's perfect," Megan declared, rolling down her window and sticking her hand out. "It *had* to rain, it just had to. It's my last night with author Chandler Bing, the most rain-obsessed writer since Hemingway."  
  
"Hey, Hemingway's characters didn't do it in the rain. They just died in it. Often."  
  
"So have you ever? Actually? Done it in the rain?"  
  
"Nope. Monica was totally against it, and I'm pretty sure most of my other girlfriends would have melted. You?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"You think it's actually as awesome as I make it sound?"  
  
"I think it's a metaphor, don't you? Being so... caught up in passion that you don't even notice or care about your surroundings."  
  
"I guess so," Chandler whispered, pulling into her driveway.  
  
"This is me, I guess," Megan said. "Give me a hug or something."  
  
They unhooked their seatbelts and met in the middle of the bench seat, arms wrapping around each other, faces burying into necks.  
  
"I am really... really... really gonna miss you," Megan sighed. "This just... sucks... so much."  
  
"So get famous and come back, be a recluse like me," Chandler said, tucking a curl behind her ear with his fingertips. "I promise I'll give your raccoon back."  
  
"You'd better." She cleared her throat, broke the mood. "Are all systems go on our evil plot?"  
  
"All systems go."  
  
She fingered the door handle reluctantly. "I guess... I should go."  
  
"Megan, I..."  
  
She turned, eyes wide. "Yes?"  
  
"I-I'll call you."  
  
"I'll call you, too. The minute we get there."  
  
"The second."  
  
"The second. I swear." She kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and pulled herself back with an effort.  
  
"Goodbye, Chandler."  
  
"Goodbye, Megan."  
  
He put the truck into gear, pulling slowly out of her driveway, easing back onto the wet road.  
  
He hit the steering wheel with his hand.  
  
Apparently, someone had let Hemingway write this rain scene.  
  
It certainly *felt* like he was dying. 


	16. Come A Long Way, Baby

2008  
  
"I'm back," Megan called, setting her purse on the kitchen counter in the darkness. "Keith?"  
  
No answer.  
  
Megan picked up the roll of tape she'd abandoned when Mr. and Mrs. Pedigreed had shown up, pushing it over her wrist like a bracelet and looking around.  
  
She taped up a box, saying a silent prayer of thanks for Keith's insistence on packing his own things. He had a precise method, involving bubble wrap and foam peanuts and colored stickers. Megan's own packing style -- which had never failed her in the past -- was far more simple.  
  
Wait until the night before, and stuff everything into garbage bags.  
  
Keith's boxes were already neatly piled by the front door, sorted by destination: kitchen, bathroom, art room, etc. He'd even made a floor plan for where everything went in their new place.  
  
He'd shown her photos of their new apartment on the Internet; she'd smiled and been secretly horrified. White carpet, white walls, blank white cabinets, ninth-story view of a palm tree embedded in concrete.  
  
So far, California looked a hell of a lot like A Clockwork Orange.  
  
The great thing about it was -- almost nothing of theirs was hers. She'd had some home stuff when they'd gotten married -- dishes, towels, that sort of thing -- but it had all been old and weird and ended up, over the years, going to live in her mother's basement.  
  
A couple Heftys full of clothes, a few boxes for CD's and books, packing up her computer... and she'd be done.  
  
She picked the box up and ran the length of the mostly empty bookshelves, tossing in the remnants. The three DVD's that belonged to her. A handful of CD's, her photo albums...  
  
She smiled, balancing the box between her knee and the bookshelf and flipping the album open, running one finger down the photo it opened to.  
  
Becca's Halloween party, two years ago. Keith hadn't wanted to go, and she'd ended up going with Chandler at the last minute, who'd been right in the middle of 'Lowdown' and barely knew what year it was, let alone that it was a major holiday.  
  
They'd ended up scrounging in the attic and finally going as Nora and Charles, playing it up to the hilt. They'd sent a copy of this picture to Charles, who had it framed in his dressing room.  
  
That'd be one nice thing about California -- she'd be closer to Charles. Maybe they could hang out, talk about Chandler...  
  
She shut the book in sudden disgust. Begging Charles for Chandler stories, just like she had at thirteen. Yeah, you've come a *long* way, baby.  
  
She threw a handful of comics on top of the albums and violently taped the box shut.  
  
"Looks like you're almost done here."  
  
She jumped. "Rachel??"  
  
Rachel walked further into the living room, sliding down the hood of her soaked sweatshirt. "I hope you don't mind me stopping by."  
  
"No... um... not at all... can I get you some, uh, tea or something?"  
  
"That's okay. I'm not staying long. I actually just came to say something."  
  
"Oh, uh. Okay. What... what is it?"  
  
Rachel raked her hand through her hair. "I came to tell you that I'm miserable. I came to tell you that I wake up every morning and regret what I did to myself. I came to tell you that I married the friend I felt obligated to, instead of the friend that I loved, and that it was the worst decision I ever made. I came to tell you that I moved with that friend away from everything, and locked my cage even further."  
  
Rachel took a deep breath, voice shaking. "I came to say that when you try not to hurt anyone, you end up hurting everyone. And I came to say that Chandler loves you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"And I came to say that if you don't *do* something about that, you're as big of an idiot as I am."  
  
Rachel put her hand on the doorknob. "That's all I came to say."  
  
"Rachel, I'm -- I'm *married*."  
  
Rachel smiled gently. "I know. So am I."  
  
***  
  
"What was that all about?" Joey asked, as Rachel climbed back into the truck.  
  
"I just needed to tell Megan something. Let's go, we'll miss the movie."  
  
***  
  
Megan stared in shock at the door Rachel had just walked through, death grip on her box, mind whirling.  
  
"Hey," Keith said, leaning against the doorframe. "Who was that?"  
  
"T-that was Rachel, C-Chandler's friend," Megan stammered. "Where have y-you been?"  
  
"In your office, using your computer."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I made you something," Keith said, passing her a stack of stapled papers.  
  
She set down the box and took them with unsteady hands, her blurring eyes struggling to focus on the type.  
  
"Keith Paulson Clark vs. Megan Mitchell Clark." She looked up at Keith, her face a mask of disbelief. "Keith... what... what are these?"  
  
"You should know... I used the disk you used for Joey."  
  
"You're... divorcing me?"  
  
"I was never married to you, Megan. Not the way I wanted to be, anyway. And I don't think I ever will be."  
  
He extended a pen, and she took it.  
  
"I gotta go pack," Keith said gruffly, turning around and walking towards the back of the house.  
  
***  
  
Chandler stared into the unblinking white void of Microsoft Word, finally pushing himself away from the computer with a groan.  
  
Wonderful. Writer's block. Because he needed something else he loved taken away from him.  
  
He wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, closed it again. Opened the pantry, closed it again. Turned the TV on, turned the TV off. Sat on the couch, tapping the remote against his chin.  
  
What was Megan doing right now?  
  
Packing, probably... throwing things into garbage bags in a way that would give Monica an aneurism. Maybe out on the porch they built, saying goodbye to her plants.  
  
The doorbell rang.  
  
"It's open, guys," Chandler called.  
  
It rang again.  
  
"I said, it's open..."  
  
Storming too hard to hear him, probably. He crossed to the door, pulling it open.  
  
"That was a short movie..." he blinked. "Megan?"  
  
She stood, shaking violently, on his doormat, water trailing down her hair and dripping off her nose, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.  
  
"What are you... get in here!"  
  
She stayed rooted in place, pulling a sheaf of papers from inside her jean jacket and holding them up for Chandler.  
  
"Oh..." he sighed, taking them gently. "Joey forgot his divorce papers?"  
  
"T-those a-aren't J-joey's d-divorce p-papers," she said through chattering teeth.  
  
"They're not?"  
  
"T-they're m-mine."  
  
Chandler froze, staring in shock at the rain-dotted printout.  
  
"So, I, um... c-came to tell you. I t-thought you'd w-wanna know, uh... so, um..." she searched his catatonic face anxiously, wiping a stream of rain off her eyes. "I g-guess I'll g-go... u-unpack and s-stuff..."  
  
She turned to go. Chandler tossed the papers inside the dry safety of the house, stepping out into the rain and grabbing her by the wrist. "Wait. Megan, wait." He looked up the pier towards the road. "Where's your car?"  
  
"I-it... um... b-broke d-down. B-back a w-while. S-so I, um, r-ran the rest of the w-way."  
  
"You... you ran?"  
  
She nodded, rain coursing down her cheeks.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Megan reached up, fingertips tracing his temple, her eyes full of him. "I wanted to be with you."  
  
Years of wanting burst inside Chandler's head as he captured Megan's lips with his, his hands burying themselves in the wet silk of her hair, each freezing prick of rain amplifying the warmth of her as she wrapped her arms around him, her mouth opening under his, her hands rising to his neck, their bodies pressing together, moving in a slow dance to the drumming of water hitting the deck.  
  
He broke the kiss and chuckled. "You wanna go inside, so we can break stuff?"  
  
She laughed and opened her eyes, reaching up to cup his face in wonder. "No... that's okay... this is good."  
  
"Just good, huh?" he laughed, picking her up and setting her on the deck post. She wrapped her legs around him. "I've never written *that* dialogue before. 'Golly, *this* is mediocre.'"  
  
"Mediocre my ass," Megan grinned, moving a piece of his hair away from his face.  
  
"Hey, that's right, your ass... do I get to bite it now?"  
  
"*And* see my tattoo," Megan smiled before cutting him off with a kiss.  
  
***  
  
"No-no, don't," Rachel whispered, putting her hand over Joey's on the gearshift. "They're down there. Can't you see them? Don't stop."  
  
"So where do we go?"  
  
Rachel looked down at the deck, a smile of happiness and envy stretching her face. "Just keep driving, Joe. Keep driving."  
  
***  
  
"So this... this is a *very* nice tattoo," Chandler grinned, tracing it with his thumb. "Can I keep it?"  
  
"It and everything attached to it," Megan laughed, poking him in the stomach.  
  
"So... are we old and uncool because we ended up coming inside?"  
  
"Doin' it in the rain may be more of a summer thing," Megan smiled, rolling over and kissing him. "You might want to modify your standard love scene to account for the reality of goosebumps."  
  
He let his hand run the length of her forearm. "Noted."  
  
"Besides... as many nights as I spent in this bed, wishing *this* were what I was doing in it... the bed deserved a little consummation."  
  
"Me too. And hey, we broke something."  
  
"And you're pretty scratched up." She trailed her fingers over the rising red marks on his back.  
  
"Hey," he said, going up onto one elbow. "There's something I haven't said yet."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I love you, too."  
  
"So, um... will you marry me?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"I mean after you get divorced, obviously..."  
  
"Even then, Chandler. I want to wake up every day and know that you're with me because you want to be, that day... that the only thing holding you to me is love."  
  
"Hey, that's pretty. Marry me anyway."  
  
She laughed.   
  
"No, seriously. That's nice and all, but see, okay... I want my ring on your finger, and my last name slapped on yours, and maybe 'Property of Chandler Bing' stamped, right here..." he traced her forehead with a finger, "And here... and here..." he let his hands roam, "... and, I dunno, maybe rig you up with some kind of car alarm."  
  
"That's going to make gynecologist visits interesting."  
  
"That's okay! 'Cause I can go, and sit in the little plastic chair, y'know. With my gun. In case he gets fresh."  
  
"I think getting fresh is the point."  
  
"Overly, non-Hippocratically fresh."  
  
"Yeah, okay... I'll marry you."  
  
"Really? I thought maybe I'd gone overboard with the gun bit."  
  
"Well, yeah, but... I kinda like the idea of having 'Property of Chandler Bing' stamped all over me. Although Becca, Becca would argue I've been that way since I was five."  
  
"You can stamp me, too, you know."  
  
"Awesome... 'cause I have this cute one that says 'Merry Christmas', and it'd look really good on your butt."  
  
"Hey, now, that's just silly."  
  
"Oh, no," Megan said in mock horror. "I'd hate it if we were silly."  
  
***  
  
Joey closed the door silently after them, hanging Chandler's keys back up on the little peg. Rachel walked ahead of him, shaking water out of her hair in front of the fire, and Joey pulled down a handtowel.  
  
"Hang on," he whispered, coming up behind her and raising the towel to her head, rubbing gently. "I gotcha."  
  
A burst of laughter came out of Chandler's bedroom, and Rachel turned to Joey wistfully. "They made it."  
  
"Yeah, they did."  
  
Rachel reached up and took one of Joey's hands away from her head, entwining her fingers in his. "Think they know how lucky they are?"  
  
Joey kissed the back of her head. "Yeah, I think they do." 


End file.
